HMHWKH 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ohp~ 


Jewels  of  Memory. 


—  BY- 


COL.  JOHN  A.  JOYCE, 

3150  U  Street,  Northwest,  Washington,  D.  C. 
Author  " Checkered  Life,"  "Peculiar  Poems,"  "Zig-Zag,"  etc. 


TRUTH    is   STRANGER  THAN    FICTION.- 


WASHINGTON,  D.  C.: 

GIBSON  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

1895- 


COPYRIGHT, 

BY 

LIBBIE  JOYCE, 
May  15,  1895. 


Stereotyped  by  the  Maurice  Joyce  Engraving  Company. 


DEDICATION. 

DB 
• 

I  dedicate  this  volume  to  the  American  soldier  and  sailor 
«M  whose  bravery  and  patriotism  on  land  and  sea  for  more  than  a 
{Q  century  challenges  the  respect  of  mankind  and  will  command 
°  the  admiration  of  posterity.  — J.  A.  J. 


g 

03 
LU 


447977 


PREFACE. 

These  Jewels  from  the  casket  of  personal  memory  I  flash 
over  the  ocean  of  literature,  trusting  that  some  sparkling  rays 
may  attract  human  hearts  when  the  soul  that  divined  and  the 
hand  that  fashioned  them  has  vanished  like  the  dews  of  the 
morning.  — J.  A.  J. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Page. 

Lyon  and  Jackson n 

CHAPTER  II. 
Fletcher  and  Blair 19 

CHAPTER  III. 
Farragut  and  Porter 26 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Sheridan 31 

CHAPTER  V. 
Sherman 38 

CHAPTER  VI. 
Grant 47 

CHAPTER  VII. 
Roscoe  Conkling 51 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
Spinner  in  bronze 66 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Samuel  Sullivan  Cox 76 

CHAPTER  X. 
George  D.  Prentice 86 

CHAPTER  XL 
Parson  Brownlow 95 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Father  Ryan  and  Henry  Stanton 104 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
Breckinridge 109 


INDEX. 
CHAPTER  XIV. 

Page. 

General  Nathaniel  Bedford  Forrest 118 

CHAPTER  XV. 
"  Corporal  "  Tanner 123 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
The  National  Capital 126 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

The  Battle  of  Shiloh — Louisville  Experiences 132 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Burnside  in  East  Tenness&e 143 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Jim  Nelson  ;  A  story  of  Georgia  Loyalty 149 

CHAPTER  XX. 
Iowa  Experience 157 

ORATIONS. 

I.  Hector.     A  Newfoundland  dog.     Kentucky,  1857 171 

II.  Decoration  Day 173 

III.  Emancipation  Day 179 

IV.  A  Toast  to  Woman 184 

Poetic  Pebbles 187 


JEWELS     DF    MEMORY, 


CHAPTER  I. 


LYON  AND  JACKSON. 

NATHANIEL  LYON,  of  Connecticut,  and  Thomas  J.  Jackson, 
of  Clarksburg,  Va.,  were  the  Puritanical  soldiers  of  the  late  civil 
war.  A  deep  religious  conviction  of  patriotism  actuated  the 
hearts  of  these  natural  leaders,  who  never  faltered  in  a  plan 
once  adopted,  but  struck  the  enemy  with  lightning  force  and 
rapidity,  accomplishing  by  audacity  what  other  generals  failed 
in  securing  by  time  and  numbers. 

Lyon  was  born  in  the  year  1819,  graduated  in  1841  at  West 
Point,  and  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Wilson's  Creek,  Mo.,  on 
the  loth  of  August,  1861. 

"  Stonewall "  Jackson  was  born  in  the  year  1824,  graduated  at 
West  Point  in  1846,  and  received  his  death  wound  at  the  battle  of 
Chancellorville,  Va.,  in  May,  1863,  dying  on  Sunday,  the  loth 
of  that  month. 

Both  of  these  military  chieftains  served  as  lieutenants  in  the 
Mexican  war  with  Scott  and  Taylor,  fought  in  the  same  battles 
for  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  and  were  promoted  for  marked  gal- 
lantry. After  the  Mexican  war  Jackson  resigned  his  commis- 
sion and  took  a  professorship  in  the  Military  Institute  of  Virginia, 
at  Lexington,  where  he  taught  until  the  shot  on  Sumter  aroused 
the  nation  to  battle. 

At  the  close  of  the  Mexican  war  Lyon  went  to  California, 
served  on  the  Indian  frontier  with  great  distinction  and  after- 
wards in  the  Kansas  political  troubles,  commanding  at  Fort 


12  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

Riley  and  taking  a  leading  part  in  the  bloody  events  that  made 
Kansas  a  free  State. 

In  May,  1861,  Lyon  went  to  St.  Louis  and  took  charge  of  a 
handful  of  United  States  regulars  at  .the  arsenal,  and,  while  only 
a  captain,  soon  rose  to  the  position  of  brigadier  general  and  took 
command  of  the  5,000  or  6,000  volunteers  that  Blair,  Sigel, 
Fletcher,  Cavender,  and  other  patriots  had  raised  to  counteract 
the  militia  that  Governor  Claiborne  Jackson  had  assembled  in 
camp  at  St.  Louis  with  the  evident  intention  of  chaining  Mis- 
souri to  the  chariot  wheels  of  the  Confederacy.  Sterling  Price 
and  Governor  Jackson  had  a  consultation  with  General  Lyon 
at  the  Planters'  House  on  the  critical  situation  existing  between 
the  State  and  national  authorities.  The  city  officials  of  St.  Louis 
insisted  that  Lyon  must  confine  his  military  movements  to  the 
narrow  precincts  of  the  arsenal.  Lyon  replied  that  the  troops 
of  the  United  States  had  a  right  to  march  anywhere  under  the 
flag,  and  if  any  man  or  body  of  men  attempted  to  interrupt 
their  course  destruction  and  death  would  be  the  consequence  to 
the  enemy. 

On  the  1 4th  of  May,  1 86 1,  while  State  and  national  authori- 
ties were  haggling  about  policy  and  precedent,  Lyon  made  a 
rapid  march  with  his  troops  to  Camp  Jackson,  located  in  the 
western  part  of  the  city,  surrounded  the  State  militia  com- 
manded by  General  Frost,  and  demanded  an  immediate  sur- 
render. There  was  nothing  left  to  Frost  but  to  fight  or  lay 
down  his  arms,  and,  as  the  guns  of  the  loyal  troops  were  ready 
to  belch  forth  a  deadly  volley,  Frost  wisely  chose  the  part  of 
discretion  and  surrendered  his  700  men  and  their  munitions  of 
war. 

The  citizens  of  St.  Louis  were  terribly  excited  over  the  un- 
looked-for dash  of  Lyon,  and  while  the  prisoners  were  being 
marched  back  to  the  arsenal  some  one  in  the  surrounding  mob 
threw  stones  at  a  German  regiment,  which  quickly  replied 
with  a  murderous  fire,  killing  and  wounding  a  number  of  people. 

For  forty-eight  hours  the  city  was  in  a  wild  state  of  revolution, 


LYON   AND   JACKSON.  13 

"  Home  Guards  "  and  "  Minute  Men  "  watching  each  other  from 
street  corners,  dark  alleys,  basements,  cellars,  and  attic  windows. 
This  daring  act  of  Lyon  in  capturing  the  State  militia  saved 
Missouri  to  the  Union  and  drew  at  once  the  lines  between  loyal 
and  disloyal  citizens.  Thus,  one  brave  spirit  is  the  iron  hand  to 
splice  the  timbers  of  a  crumbling  State  or  solidify  the  breaking 
arches  of  a  nation. 

While  Governor  Jackson,  of  Missouri,  was  doing  his  best  to 
drag  the  State  into  the  whirlpool  of  secession  Governor  Letcher, 
of  Virginia,  was  not  slow  in  organizing  troops  to  sustain  the 
Southern  Confederacy  and  enlist  the  Old  Dominion  in  the  war 
against  the  Union. 

Thomas  J.  Jackson  was  the  commander  of  the  State  militia 
under  Governor  Wise  when  that  rugged  fanatic  of  freedom,  John 
Brown,  was  wounded,  captured,  and  hung  at  Harper's  Ferry,  and 
Robert  E.  Lee  was  the  commander  of  the  regular  troops  on 
that  occasion.  The  firing  on  the  flag  at  Sumter  was  but  the 
echo  of  the  scaffold  thud  at  Harper's  Ferry  and  the  knell  of 
human  slavery  in  this  Republic.  Jackson  offered  his  heart  and 
hand  to  his  native  State,  was  commissioned  a  colonel,  and  was 
soon  after  made  a  brigadier  general  of  the  Confederacy  under 
the  command  of  Beauregard  and  Johnston.  The  brigade  of 
Jackson  was  felt  at  the  first  battle  of  Bull  Run,  and  while  Mc- 
Dowell, Sherman,  and  Burnside  attempted  to  break  the  gray 
lines  at  the  celebrated  "  Stone  Bridge  "  the  Confederate  troops 
immediately  under  Jackson  stood  like  a  stone  wall. 

General  Bee,  a  companion  commander  of  Jackson,  in  cheer- 
ing his  men  into  the  fight,  called  their  attention  to  the  front  and 
exclaimed,  "  Look  at  Jackson  and  his  men,  he  stands  like  a  stone 
wall,"  and  from  that  historic  day  to  the  present  time  the  hero  of 
a  hundred  battles  has  been  known  as  "  Stonewall "  Jackson. 

During  Jackson's  life  he  was  the  mainstay  of  General  Lee. 
In  1862  and  1863  he  had  an  independent  command  and  swept  up 
and  down  the  Shenandoah  Valley  like  an  eagle,  pouncing  upon 
his  prey  when  least  expected.  At  Winchester  he  dashed  against 


14  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

old  General  James  Shields,  of  Irish  and  Mexican  memory,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  Jackson's  career  he  was  beaten  back  like  an 
ocean  breaker  on  a  rock-bound  shore.  He,  however,  foiled  and 
whipped  in  detail  parts  of  the  commands  of  McClellan,  Fremont, 
Burnside,  Banks,  and  Miles,  capturing  more  than  11,000  men 
from  the  latter  at  Harper's  Ferry. 

The  celerity  of  Jackson's  movements  over  the  passes  of  the 
Blue  Ridge,  through  the  luxuriant  fields  of  the  Shenandoah 
Valley,  over  the  swollen  streams  and  rolling  hills  of  Maryland 
bring  to  mind  the  active  genius  of  the  Great  Napoleon,  whether 
leading  his  soldiers  on  foot  over  the  bridge  of  Lodi  or  hurling 
his  serried  battalions  against  the  foe  on  the  plains  of  Marengo 
or  at  the  rising  sun  of  Austerlitz. 

It  was  a  common  belief  with  the  soldiers  of  "  Stonewall " 
Jackson  that  his  constant  prayer  and  solemn  sincerity  assured 
victory  on  every  field,  and  the  Almighty  inspired  and  led  their 
beloved  commander.  They  never  doubted  a  full  supply  of 
rations  and  clothing  while  any  political  generals  were  found  in 
the  Valley,  and  it  was  a  source  of  amusement  that  certain  Union 
officers  acted  as  commisariats  for  the  half  starved  and  ragged 
Confederates.  At  Malvern  Hill,  Antietam,  Fredericksburg,  and 
down  to  the  fatal  night  at  Chancellorville,  in  May,  1863,  when 
he  received  his  death  wound  from  an  accidental  shot,  Jackson 
never  faltered  in  his  duty  nor  doubted  the  issue  while  he  had  a 
soldier  to  command.  The  same  inflexible  fortitude  that  signal- 
ized his  conduct  at  Cherubusco  and  Chapultepec  in  fighting  for 
his  country  actuated  his  soul  in  battling  against  it.  Peter  the 
Hermit  and  Marshal  Ney  were  never  inspired  with  more  lofty 
courage  or  religious  devotion  to  duty  than  Jackson  evinced  on 
the  blood-stained  battlefields  of  the  late  war.  When  dying  at 
Guinea's  Station  his  wife  told  him  the  end  of  life  was  near.  He 
replied  as  his  last  words,  "Very  good;  very  good;  all  right," 
and  thus  as  a  child  of  destiny  he  passed  into  the  realms  of  the 
vast  unknown. 

The  integrity  and  valor  that  characterized  the  life  of  Jackson 


LYON   AND   JACKSON.  15 

belong  to  American  heroism,  and,  although  he  fought  for  the 
disruption  of  the  Union,  his  bravery  and  genius  must  be  recog- 
nized in  every  land  and  clime  where  man  battles  with  man  and 
dies  for  what  each  deems  the  right. 

When  Jackson's  wound  was  reported,  Lee  replied,  "  He  is 
better  off  than  I  am.  He  lost  his  left  arm,  but  I  have  lost  my 
right."  "  Stonewall "  Jackson  bore  the  same  relation  to  Lee 
that  Ney  held  to  Napoleon,  and,  were  it  not  for  the  accidental 
stations  of  the  chiefs,  I  am  convinced  that  the  lieutenants  would 
have  outshone  the  luster  of  their  superiors.  It  is  thus  unfortu- 
nate for  a  great  genius  to  be  born  under  the  shadow  of  one  in 
a  great  office,  for,  while  the  subordinate  exercises  wonderful 
powers,  his  greatest  deeds  are  obscured  by  the  commanding 
general,  and  the  glory  that  should  shine  out  like  the  mid-day 
sun  beams  dimly,  like  the  evening  star  through  the  mists  the 
great  luminary  has  diffused ! 

After  the  fall  of  Camp  Jackson,  in  Missouri,  General  Lyon 
took  immediate  command  of  all  the  troops  in  St.  Louis,  replac- 
ing General  Harney,  whose  age  and  inaction  ill  suited  him  for 
controlling  the  desperate  daily  events  occurring  through  the 
State. 

Governor  Jackson  and  General  Price  had  begun  hostilities  in 
the  center  of  Missouri,  and  as  no  time  could  be  lost  Lyon  issued 
his  proclamation  against  the  treasonable  movements  of  the  Con- 
federates, and  marched  at  once  on  Jefferson  City,  the  capital  of 
the  State.  He  also  sent  a  force  to  Southeast  Missouri,  where 
a  handful  of  men  under  Colonel  Thomas  C.  Fletcher  turned 
aside  the  soldiers  of  Price  at  Potosi  and  prevented  the  capture 
of  St.  Louis. 

On  the  approach  of  Lyon  to  Jefferson  City  the  combined 
Confederates  under  Sterling  Price  retreated  to  Boonville,  where 
a  battle  was  fought  on  the  iyth  of  June,  1861,  resulting  in  a 
complete  triumph  for  the  Union  troops.  Lyon  followed  up  his 
success,  pushing  the  enemy  towards  Springfield  in  Southwest 
Missouri,  after  defeating  them  at  Dug  Springs.  The  foe  finally 


1 6  JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 

assembled  at  Wilson's  Creek,  about  9  miles  from  Springfield, 
where  General  Ben  McCulloch  made  a  junction  with  Price, 
massing  a  force  of  24,000  men  as  against  6,000  under  Lyon. 
The  Confederates  had  a  cavalry  force  alone  of  6,000,  while 
Lyon  had  only  500.  Yet,  with  this  great  difference  in  numbers, 
the  worn-out  condition  of  his  volunteers,  and  the  heartless  and 
jealous  conduct  of  superiors  in  failing  to  reinforce  him,  General 
Lyon  called  a  council  of  war  and  determined  not  to  retreat  and 
give  up  all  the  blood-bought  territory  that  had  been  recently 
gained,  but  to  make  a  night  march,  attack  the  enemy  at  daybreak 
and  risk  all  that  fight  and  fate  might  present.  The  determination 
of  Lyon  to  attack  a  force  four  times  his  number  was  worthy  the 
bravery  of  Alexander  or  Napoleon,  and,  were  it  not  for  his  un- 
timely death  in  leading  the  First  Iowa  to  a  desperate  charge,  it 
is  conceded  on  all  sides  that  the  Confederates  would  have  been 
defeated  and  driven  from  the  State.  The  fight  continued  for 
nine  hours  with  alternate  success.  Lyon  divided  his  little  army 
into  two  divisions,  retaining  about  4,000  men  himself,  while 
Sigel  with  the  remainder  and  a  battery  of  guns  made  a  detour 
from  the  main  line  of  attack  in  order  to  strike  the  enemy  on  the 
flank  and  rear  and  then  rejoin  Lyon  at  a  given  point,  but  before 
Sigel  was  aware  of  his  location  and  danger  the  enemy  drew 
him  into  ambush,  where  he  lost  five  of  his  six  guns  and  a  num- 
ber of  his  men  were  taken  prisoners,  and  thus  the  German 
general  was  broken  up  and  crippled  during  the  balance  of  the 
battle. 

Lyon,  however,  kept  up  the  fight  on  the  Confederate  lines 
with  the  most  desperate  resolve,  receiving  two  wounds,  while 
his  horse  was  killed  under  him,  yet  he  mounted  another  and 
led  his  last  charge,  in  the  midst  of  which  he  was  pierced  through 
the  breast  with  a  rifle  ball. 

Major  Sam  Sturgis,  of  the  regulars  (late  general  command- 
ing at  the  Soldiers'  Home  in  Washington),  by  common  consent 
took  charge  of  the  troops  after  the  death  of  Lyon  and  contin- 
ued the  fight  into  the  afternoon,  driving  the  enemy  from  their 


LYON    AND   JACKSON.  17 

camps  and  off  the  field.  Knowing  the  superior  numbers  of  the 
Confederates,  Sturgis  withdrew  to  his  base  of  supplies,  at  Spring- 
field, and  turned  over  his  command  to  General  Sigel,  who 
made  a  masterly  retreat  to  Rolla  with  all  his  stores  and  a  quarter 
of  a  million  of  Government  money. 

The  death  of  Lyon  threw  a  cloud  of  sorrow  over  the  Union 
cause,  and  while  his  corpse  was  en  route  to  his  native  Connecti- 
cut the  people  of  great  cities  paid  homage  to  his  memory  and 
the  Congress  of  the  United  States  passed  resolutions  of  respect 
and  regret,  while  eloquent  eulogiums  were  delivered  in  honor 
of  the  fallen  hero.  When  the  will  of  Lyon  was  opened  by  his 
executors  it  was  found  that  he  left  his  money,  more  than  $30,000, 
to  be  devoted  to  the  preservation  of  the  Union ;  thus  giving  all, 
both  life  and  fortune,  for  the  salvation  of  his  flag  and  country. 

Lyon  and  Jackson  were  deeply  mourned  by  their  friends,  and 
in  all  human  probability  had  these  natural  soldiers  lived  until 
the  last  shot  at  Appomattox  they  would  have  been  in  supreme 
command  of  their  respective  armies.  Jackson  was  mathemat- 
ical, solemn,  and  a  strict  believer  in  predestination.  Lyon 
might  have  been  the  right  arm  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  while 
gifted  with  the  military  genius  of  Jackson  he  combined  state- 
craft with  his  war-like  talent,  and  was  thoroughly  conversant 
with  the  political  philosophy  of  the  Republic.  These  warriors 
had  many  elements  in  common.  The  Puritan  of  Connecticut 
had  the  solemnity  of  the  cavalier  from  Virginia.  Lyon  was 
direct  and  positive  in  his  work.  So  was  Jackson.  The  Yankee 
was  spare  and  angular,  with  piercing  bluish  gray  eyes.  The 
Southern  soldier  looked  about  the  same.  Lyon  was  studious. 
Jackson  was  contemplative.  Lyon  never  doubted.  Jackson 
was  self-reliant.  Lyon  left  West  Point  as  Jackson  entered. 
Each  fought  for  the  old  flag  in  Mexico,  but  when  the  rebellion 
began  they  separated,  on  the  ideal  of  duty,  and  fought  as  earn- 
estly as  when  bleeding  for  the  same  banner.  The  genius  and 
death  of  Lyon  gave  genuine  promise  of  his  greatness,  while  the 
death  of  Jackson,  nearly  two  years  after,  found  him  the  right 


1 8  .  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

arm  of  the  Confederacy  and  in  the  zenith  of  his  glory.  Lyon 
with  a  regiment  would  fight  a  division.  Jackson  with  a  division 
would  fight  a  corps,  and  each  could  command  an  army. 

While  Lee  and  Longstreet,  Grant  and  Sherman,  learned 
wisdom  from  the  rugged  road  of  experience,  Lyon  and  Jackson 
divined  at  once  the  motives  of  men,  planned  the  attack,  struck 
the  blow,  and  as  a  natural  sequence  triumphed  where  defeat 
perched  on  the  banners  of  those  who  doubt. 

The  brain  of  the  natural  soldier  is  his  map  of  battlefield.  As 
the  pawns,  knights,  and  bishops  are  moved  on  a  chess  board, 
he  organizes  brigades,  divisions,  and  armies'  to  checkmate  his 
foe  at  some  central  point,  and  wins  the  victory  while  his  adver- 
sary hesitates  on  the  field  of  slaughter. 

The  name  and  fame  of  Lyon  and  Jackson  shall  emblazon  the 
military  pages  of  this  great  Republic  as  long  as  honesty  and 
valor  are  respected,  and  side  by  side  through  the  coming  ages 
these  imperturbable,  ideal  soldiers  shall  march  in  the  van  of  the 
military  heroes  who  have  gone  down  to  universal  silence  in  the 
crash  of  battle. 

Peace  to  Stonewall  Jackson, 
God  bless  brave  Lyon,  too; 
Sighs  and  tears  we'll  mingle 
For  the  Gray  and  for  the  Blue; 
And  coming  ages  yet  shall  weave 
Fondly,  fair  and  true — 
Garlands  bright  above  the  mounds 
Where  sleep  the  Gray  and  Blue! 


CHAPTER  II. 


FLETCHER  AND  BLAIR. 

GOVERNOR  THOMAS  C.  FLETCHER,  of  Missouri,  was  born  in 
Jefferson  County  of  that  State  on  the  22d  of  January,  1829. 
His  parents  were  from  the  Eastern  Shore  of  Maryland  and  were 
slaveholders. 

A  few  months'  schooling  in  the  fall  and  winter  during  boy- 
hood under  the  ferule  of  a  country  pedagogue  in  an  old  log 
school  house  was  the  extent  of  his  early  education.  At  the  age 
of  twenty-one  he  was  elected  clerk  of  his  county  and  recorder 
of  deeds,  and  held  these  positions  until  1856,  when  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  and  resigned  the  county  offices. 

Although  reared  and  educated  in  the  atmosphere  of  slavery 
he  was  instinctively  opposed  to  the  institution,  and  when  the 
Republican  party  was  formed  in  1856  he  was  a  delegate  to  the 
national  convention,  the  first  from  any  slave  State.  He  was  a 
member  of  the  Chicago  convention  that  nominated  Mr.  Lincoln 
in  1860,  and  canvassed  his  State  for  the  great  Liberator. 

In  personal  appearance  Fletcher  is  a  fine-looking  man.  He 
stands  six  feet  one ;  stalwart  and  straight  in  form.  His  head  is 
large,  round,  and  high,  of  Shaksperian  proportions.  His  eyes 
are  dark  brown,  nose  prominent,  lips  and  chin  emphatic,  yet  a 
contour  of  countenance  expressing  benevolence  and  deep 
thought. 

When  he  makes  up  his  mind  on  any  private  or  public  sub- 
ject he  stands  as  firm  as  the  rocks,  and  no  cajolery  or  threats 
can  intimidate  him.  He  has  been  a  pioneer  of  thought  and 
leads  instead  of  following,  simply  because  nature  built  him  that 
way.  When  others  hesitate  to  go  to  the  front,  he  is  the  first  to 
step  right  up  to  the  danger  line  and  toe  the  mark,  even  unto 

(19) 


2O  JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 

death.  He  is  very  politic  to  a  certain .  point  and  will  do  as 
much  for  peace,  order,  and  compromise  as  any  man,  but  when 
it  comes  to  the  word  "fire,"  his  pistol  goes  off  first. 

I  met  Governor  Fletcher  in  St.  Louis  twenty-five  years  ago, 
and  from  that  time  to  this,  as  a  mystic  brother,  a  soldier  com- 
rade, a  confidential  lawyer,  and  unfaltering  friend,  we  have  been 
on  the  most  intimate  terms.  Often  have  I  sat  in  social  conclave 
with  himself  and  friends  in  St.  Louis  and  Washington  and  heard 
his  reminiscences  of  the  late  war  and  the  great  actors  in  the 
rebellion. 

The  winter  of  sixty  and  sixty-one,  up  to  the  shot  on  Fort 
Sumter,  was  a  stirring  and  fearful  period  for  the  loyal  men  and 
women  of  Missouri. 

Seated  one  day,  in  the  fall  of  1 870,  at  the  Planters'  House,  in 
old  John  King's  restaurant,  with  Fletcher,  Francis  P.  Blair,  Gratz 
Brown,  William  McKee,  Henry  T.  Blow,  and  James  B.  Eads,  I 
heard  more  early  war  stories  from  these  noted  men  than  I  ever 
expect  to  hear  again.  They  have  all  passed  into  the  vast  unknown, 
save  Fletcher,  who  still  lingers  as  one  of  the  few  war  governors. 
On  that  occasion  he  was  the  principal  spokesman,  although 
General  Frank  P.  Blair  put  in  his  oar  every  now  and  then  with  a 
deep  splash  that  stirred  up  the  waters  of  memory. 

Fletcher  remarked  to  Blair,  "  Don't  you  remember  when  you 
took  a  crowd  of  us  '  roosters '  down  to  the  arsenal  and  introduced 
us  to  General  Lyon  that  cold  February  morning  just  after  his 
arrival  from  Fort  Riley,  in  Kansas  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  should  say  so,"  answered  Blair  ;  "  when  I  forget 
myself  I'll  forget  Nathaniel  Lyon,  in  my  opinion  the  greatest 
soldier  of  our  war.  Yes,  boys  it  will  be  a  cold  day  when  I 
forget  that  red-headed  Puritan.  What  a  stern,  manly -looking 
officer  he  was,  with  his  close-fitting  captain's  uniform,  his  erect 
and  athletic  form,  piercing  deep  blue  eyes,  Roman  nose,  thin 
lips,  firm  jaw,  expressive  of  indomitable  will,  and  a  voice  as  cleat 
and  distinct  as  the  tones  of  a  midnight  fire  bell." 

"  Tom,"  said  Blair,  "  do  you  know  that  if  it  had  not  been  for 


FLETCHER  AND    BLAIR.  21 

that  hero,  Lyon,  Missouri  would  have  been  chained  to  the  wheels 
of  the  Confederacy,  for  General  Harney  was  either  too  partial  to 
the  Southern  leaders  or  too  inert  to  know  or  see  what  '  Claib.' 
Jackson  and  his  gang  were  doing." 

"  No,  Frank,  I  think  if  it  had  not  been  for  your  influence  with 
Secretary  Cameron  and  President  Lincoln  in  superseding  Harney 
with  Lyon,  Missouri  might  have  been  for  awhile  cut  away  from 
the  moorings  of  the  Union ;  but,  by  the  Eternal,  we'd  bring 
her  back  or  burst  the  Republic  in  trying !  And,  then,  you  were 
behind  Lyon  in  urging  him  on  to  the  capture  of  Frost  and  his 
militia  at  Camp  Jackson ! " 

"Frank, "said  Fletcher,  "tell  us  all  about  that  celebrated 
Planters'  House  meeting  between  Lyon  and  Claib.  Jackson." 

"  Well,"  said  Blair,  "  there  isn't  much  to  tell.  It  was  short, 
sharp,  and  decisive.  There  were  only  six  of  us  present.  '  Claib.' 
Jackson,  the  governor ;  Sterling  Price,  and  Tom  Snead  repre- 
sented the  Confederate  cause,  while  Lyon,  Major  Conant,  and 
myself  stood  out  for  the  Union.  Lyon  opened  the  ball  by  say- 
ing that  I  would  do  the  talking  for  the  Government,  as  the 
authorities  at  Washington  had  confidence  in  my  loyalty.  Gov- 
ernor Jackson  first  said,  '  I  do  not  want  the  Government  to  enlist 
troops  in  Missouri  or  march  its  soldiers  across  the  State.'  I 
could  see  that  the  only  reason  Jackson  asked  for  the  conference 
at  all  was  to  gain  time  and  make  sure  Missouri  should  enter 
rebellion.  We  talked  pro  and  con  for  about  three  hours,  and 
the  more  we  talked  the  further  apart  we  found  ourselves. 

"  I  could  see  by  the  flash  of  Lyon's  eyes  and  his  compressed 
lips  that  he  was  getting  madder  and  madder  as  the  discussion 
progressed,  and,  while  he  suggested  that  I  should  do  the  talking, 
he  soon  took  the  lead  himself  and  threw  out  his  national  ideas 
like  hot  shell  out  of  a  cannon. 

"  I  saw  at  once  that  the  fiery  captain  was  about  to  break  up 
the  conference,  when,  finally,  in  reply  to  Governor  Jackson,  he 
said :  '  Rather  than  concede  to  the  State  of  Missouri  the  right 
to  demand  that  the  National  Government  shall  not  enlist  troops 


22  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

within  her  borders  or  bring  soldiers  into  the  State  whenever  it 
pleased  and  move  them  at  its  own  will  into,  out  of,  or  through 
the  State ;  rather  than  concede  to  the  State  of  Missouri  for  one 
single  moment  the  right  to  dictate  to  my  Government  in  any 
matter,  however  trivial,  I  would  see  (pointing  to  each  of  us) 
you  and  you,  and  you  and  you  and  you ;  and  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  the  State  dead  and  buried ! ' 

"  Then,  pointing  directly  at  Governor  Jackson,  he  said :  '  This 
means  war !  In  an  hour  one  of  my  officers  will  call  and  give 
you  safe  conduct  through  my  lines.'  And  then,  turning  on  his 
heel,  without  a  look  or  word  he  rushed  out  of  the  room  with 
rattling  spurs  and  clanking  saber,  the  personification  of  Napo- 
leonic defiance  and  action. 

"  We  looked  at  each  other  in  blank  amazement  for  a  few 
moments,  made  a  few  personal  remarks,  when  Conant  and  my- 
self bid  good-bye  to  our  Jefferson  City  friends,  and  from  that 
moment  to  the  close  of  the  civil  war  we  were  open  enemies." 

The  group  of  men  that  sat  around  that  festive  table  I  shall 
never  forget.  They  were  leaders,  and  each  in  his  day  played 
an  important  part. 

William  McKee  was  born  in  the  Empire  State  and  came 
West  when  a  boy,  and  soon  after  engaged  in  newspaper  business. 
He  became  proprietor  of  the  old  Union  and  was  the  expo- 
nent of  Benton,  after  which  he  became  the  proprietor  of  the 
Democrat,  with  George  Fishback,  and  afterward  the  Globe- 
Democrat,  with  Dan  Houser.  Under  the  present  editorial 
management  of  Joseph  B.  McCullough ("  Little  Mack")  it  has 
become  a  power  in  the  land,  and  its  miscellaneous  articles  and 
editorials  are  copied  all  over  the  world. 

B.  Gratz  Brown  was  a  brilliant  journalist,  lawyer,  and  politician, 
and  in  the  early  contests  with  slavery  he  took  sides  with  freedom, 
and  while  editing  the  old  Democrat  he  warmly  espoused  the 
ambitions  of  Frank  Blair.  Brown  was  a  native  of  Kentucky, 
became  governor  of  Missouri  in  the  so-called  "  Liberal "  move- 
ment that  upset  the  uncharitable  and  tyrannical  "  Drake  "  con- 


FLETCHER  AND    BLAIR.  23 

stitution.  He  ran  as  Vice-President  on  the  ticket  with  Horace 
Greeley,  and  both  were  swamped  in  a  tidal  wave  of  popular 
indignation,  poor  Greeley  dying  soon  after  as  a  victim  of  vault- 
ing ambition. 

Henry  T.  Blow,  a  wealthy  miner  and  white  lead  manufact- 
urer, was  a  citizen  of  great  influence  and  commanded  the  respect 
of  personal  and  political  powers.  He  had  been  a  Congressman, 
and  also  represented  the  United  States  at  the  court  of  Dom 
Pedro,  in  Brazil,  negotiating  commercial  treaties  with  that  Em- 
pire very  advantageous  to  the  country.  He  was  a  man  of 
inborn  politeness,  shrewd,  diplomatic,  and  generous,  and  was 
held  in  the  highest  esteem  by  General  Grant,  who  often  con- 
sulted him  about  political  matters  in  the  West. 

Captain  James  B.  Eads  was  a  man  of  remarkable  perseverance 
and  possessed  an  extraordinary  genius  as  an  engineer.  His 
perceptive  faculties  were  largely  developed,  and  his  head  might 
serve  as  a  companion-piece  to  Bismarck  or  Humboldt. 

Sir  Christopher  Wren  and  John  A.  Robling  were  never  inspired 
by  a  larger  scope  of  ambition  in  the  profession  of  engineering 
and  architectural  skill  than  Eads.  He  was  equal  to  any  emer- 
gency. When  the  United  States  wanted  ironclads  to  ply  up 
and  down  the  waters  of  the  Mississippi  during  the  war,  Captain 
Eads  jumped  into  the  arena  and  filled  the  bill. 

When  St.  Louis  stood  halting  for  many  years  for  bridge  con- 
nection with  the  East,  with  small  ferries  and  a  river  of  ice  at  its 
front,  it  was  Eads  that  came  forward  and  threw  across  the  Mis- 
sissippi the  finest  steel  bridge  in  the  world,  resting  on  piers  and 
abutments,  based  on  the  rock  of  ages. 

When  the  mouth  of  the  Father  of  Waters  became  filled  and 
choked  with  the  sands  of  centuries,  brought  down  from  the 
golden  and  silver  ribs  of  the  rocky  mountains,  it  was  Eads  who 
planned  and  executed  the  herculean  task  of  a  national  dentist, 
and  tore  away  the  snaggled  teeth  and  lumpy  roots,  giving  to  the 
Nation,  by  his  jetties,  a  free  river  to  the  bounding  billows  of  the 
gulf. 


24  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

General  Francis  Preston  Blair  first  saw  the  light  of  day  at 
Lexington,  Ky.,  on  the  igth  day  of  February,  1821.  He  sprang 
from  Virginia  stock,  his  grandfather,  James  Blair,  removing  to 
Kentucky  in  the  year  1800,  and  was  afterward  attorney  general 
of  his  adopted  State,  while  his  son  Francis,  the  father  of  our 
subject,  became  a  noted  political  character  during  the  life  of 
Henry  Clay,  Andrew  Jackson,  and  Martin  Van  Buren,  being 
for  many  years  the  editor  of  the  Congressional  Globe. 

The  same  year  that  ushered  General  Blair  into  the  world, 
Missouri,  the  theater  of  his  earlier  and  later  triumphs,  was  ad- 
mitted into  the  Union  after  a  hard  contest  between  the  Demo- 
cratic and  Free  Soil  parties,  when  the  celebrated  Missouri  Com- 
promise forbidding  the  further  extension  of  slavery  was  enacted. 
Blair  graduated  at  Princeton  when  only  twenty  years  of  age, 
and  settled  in  St.  Louis  to  practice  law.  His  restless  spirit  tested 
the  wilds  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  in  1845  and  1846  until  the 
Mexican  war  found  him  with  Kearney  and  Doniphan  battling 
for  the  old  flag. 

In  1848  he  supported  the  Free  Soil  party  under  the  leader- 
ship of  Van  Buren,  and  in  1854  was  elected  to  the  legislature 
after  a  very  hot  canvass  on  the  slavery  question.  In  1856  he 
was  elected  to  Congress  and  made  a  noted  speech  favoring 
the  colonization  of  the  black  man  in  Africa,  endeavoring  to  pluck 
the  thorn  of  slavery  from  the  side  of  the  Republic. 

He  was  a  passionate  orator  and  a  slashing  editorial  writer, 
fearless  and  manly  in  all  his  movements. 

When  Fort  Sumter  was  fired  upon  and  the  flag  of  the  Nation 
desecrated  he  was  the  first  man  in  Missouri  to  step  to  the  front 
and  offer  his  services  to  the  Government.  For  four  years  he 
battled  on  the  Mississippi,  Cumberland,  and  Tennessee  for  the 
salvation  of  the  Union.  He  left  the  Army  in  September,  1864, 
after  the  capture  of  Atlanta,  a  major  general,  who  commanded 
the  fighting  Seventeenth  Corps  through  all  its  historic  marches 
and  battles. 

General  Logan  and  himself  took  part  in  the  Presidential  cam- 


FLETCHER  AND    BLAIR.  25 

paign  and  rendered  invaluable  service  to  Mr.  Lincoln  and  the 
Republican  party. 

Logan  was  a  loyal  Democrat,  and  wherever  the  banner  of 
"  Black  Jack"  moved  on  the  field  of  slaughter  there  was  found 
intensity  and  victory.  He  inspired  his  command  with  the  spirit 
of  his  own  unconquerable  soul,  and  rushing  into  battle,  with 
long,  flowing  raven  locks,  he  was  the  equal  of  Murat  at  Ma- 
rengo,  Skobeleff  at  Plevna,  and  Sheridan  at  Winchester.  So 
long  as  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  Loyal  Legion,  and 
Sons  of  Veterans  exist  and  Decoration  Day,  the  3Oth  of  May, 
is  celebrated  as  a  national  holiday,  just  so  long,  in  bronze,  song, 
and  story,  will  the  memory  of  our  illustrious  comrade  shine  down 
the  crowding  ages. 

A  few  years  after  the  war  General  Blair  allied  himself  with 
the  Liberal-Democratic  party,  was  elected  to  the  United  States 
Senate,  and  became  a  candidate  for  Vice- President  on  the  ticket 
with  Horatio  Seymour. 

His  opposition  to  the  reconstruction  laws  of  Congress  was 
radically  pronounced,  because  of  that  generous,  spontaneous 
nature  that  would  not  hit  a  man  when  down. 

Blair  was  six  feet  tall,  high  forehead,  prominent  nose,  firm 
lips,  gray  eyes,  and  walked  upright  through  the  world  as  God 
had  made  him. 

The  people  of  St.  Louis  have  erected  a  statue  to  his  memory, 
and,  so  long  as  loyalty  and  Lyon  are  remembered  by  the  Nation, 
such  patriots  as  Fletcher  Logan,  and  Blair  will  find  a  prominent 
niche  in  the  temple  of  the  Republic! 


CHAPTER  III. 


FARRAGUT  AND  PORTER. 

FOR  more  than  a  hundred  years  the  American  Navy  has  sus- 
tained the  honor  and  life  of  the  Republic,  and,  although  Albion 
boasts  of  being  mistress  of  the  seas,  we  have  matched  her  Nelson, 
Blake,  and  Cockburn  with  Paul  Jones,  Stephen  Decatur,  and 
David  Farragut. 

Wherever  the  Stars  and  Stripes  met  the  Union  Jack  or  any 
other  flag,  on  land  or  sea,  its  enemies  were  finally  forced  to  sur- 
render to  the  emblem  of  freedom. 

The  American  soldier  at  Lexington,  Yorktown,  New  Orleans, 
and  Gettysburg  performed  heroic  deeds  of  universal  renown, 
yet  the  American  sailors  on  the  Bonhomme  Richard,  the  Ches- 
apeake, the  Essex,  the  Constitution,  the  Armstrong,  the  Monitor, 
the  Cumberland,  the  Kearsarge,  and  the  Hartford  has  written 
his  name  in  letters  of  blood  and  radiant  light  on  the  highest 
roll  of  battle  glory. 

Today,  although  not  first  in  the  list  of  maritime  war  vessels, 
we  can,  if  necessary,  with  the  New  York,  the  Columbia,  Terror, 
and  Indiana,  commanded  by  such  specimen  officers  as  Admiral 
Walker,  Captain  Robley  Evans,  and  Lieutenant  Lucian  Young, 
conquer  and  capture  anything  that  monarchy  can  send  against 
us.  This  is  not  said  in  any  boasting  spirit,  but  with  that  abso- 
lute faith  our  people  have  always  had  in  the  shrewdness  and 
pluck  of  the  Yankee  sailor. 

I  have  participated  in  war  and  deeply  studied  the  elements 
that  guarantee  victory  on  land  and  sea,  and  I  am  thoroughly 
convinced  that  it  is  not  large  forts,  big  ships,  steel  plates,  or 
great  guns  that  lead  to  success  in  desperate  encounter.  No ;  it 
is  the  stout  heart,  the  iron  nerve,  and  the  unconquerable  will 
(26) 


FARRAGUT   AND    PORTER.  27 

beating  under  the  blue  jacket,  that  makes  tyranny  tremble  and 
waved  our  glorious  flag  over  the  defeat  of  every  foreign  and 
domestic  foe. 

I  was  introduced  at  the  White  House  to  Admiral  David  G. 
Farragut  by  General  Grant  very  soon  after  his  first  inauguration 
as  President. 

The  Admiral  impressed  me  as  a  man  of  lofty  ideals.  He 
spoke  in  measured  tone,  looked  rugged  in  form,  swarthy,  with 
wrinkles  from  the  sea,  and  large,  dark  eyes,  inherited,  no  doubt, 
from  his  Spanish  ancestors,  who  were  great  soldiers  and  officers 
in  the  thirteenth  century,  and  aided  their  royal  master  in  ex- 
pelling the  Moors  from  their  luxurious  abodes  on  the  sunlit 
slopes  of  Granada  and  Andalusia.  The  father  of  the  Admiral 
was  a  soldier  in  our  Revolutionary  War,  and  soon  after  its  close 
moved  over  the  mountains  to  the  wilds  of  East  Tennessee,  where 
our  hero  was  born  at  Campbell's  Station,  near  Knoxville,  on  the 
5th  of  July,  1801. 

When  only  a  boy  of  ten  years  he  was  taken  aboard  of 
the  celebrated  Essex  by  Commodore  Porter,  where  he  no 
doubt,  received  the  first  lessons  of  naval  warfare.  He  rose  step 
by  step  from  the  war  of  1812  to  the  rebellion  of  1 86 1,  when  his 
firm  character  placed  him  at  the  head  of  the  American  Navy. 
He  impressed  me  as  a  lonely,  solemn  character  who  lived 
in  his  own  world  of  glory  and  cared  but  little  for  the  adulation 
and  flattery  of  mankind.  He  seemed  wrapped  in  the  solitude 
of  his  own  originality — a  hermit  enthroned  on  the  mountain 
crag  of  thought. 

I  have  found  all  great  men  plain,  simple,  and  unobtrusive, 
making  ho  pretense  whatever,  resting  their  renown  and  historic* 
greatness  upon  their  blunt  deeds.  The  Admiral  was  one  of  this 
kind,  as  is  well  known  by  his  action  on  the  Hartford  in  passing 
forts  Jackson  at  New  Orleans  and  Morgan  at  Mobile. 

His  fleet  advanced  on  Mobile  at  6:47  oclock  that  August  morn- 
ing, when  Captain  Alden,  the  leading  officer,  suddenly  stopped. 
Farragut,  from  his  high  lookout  in  the  rigging  of  the  Hartford,. 


28  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

shouted :  "  What's  the  trouble  ?  "  Alden  replied,  "  Torpedoes ! " 
Farragut  exclaimed :  "  Damn  the  torpedoes !  Four  bells,  Cap- 
tain Drayton  !  Go  ahead  ! " 

And,  then  and  there,  the  Hartford  led  the  line  to  victory, 
crowning  the  old  Admiral  with  a  wreath  of  imperishable  glory. 
His  fine  statue,  made  by  the  artistic  Vinnie  Ream,  now  graces 
the  Capitol. 

Glory  to  great  Farragut, 

And  to  the  Hartford  true, 

That  ploughed  through  the  torpedoes, 

With  the  red,  the  white,  and  the  blue! 

DAVID    D.    PORTER. 

I  met  Admiral  David  D.  Porter  in  the  fall  of  1874,  being  in- 
troduced by  his  good  wife,  who  wished  to  see  me  relative  to  a 
position  in  the  revenue  service  for  her  son  Essex,  at  St.  Louis. 
I  had  never  seen  the  Admiral  before  and  was  much  interested 
in  such  a  noted  sailor.  He  seemed  to  be  a  man  of  strong  prej- 
udice and  indomitable  will. 

He  was  born  in  Chester,  Pa.,  on  the  8th  of  June,  1813,  the 
son  of  that  other  David  D.  Porter  that  swept  the  Atlantic  and 
Pacific  in  the  war  of  1812,  and  who  made  such  a  wonderful 
fight  in  the  harbor  of  Valapairaso  against  the  combined  attack 
of  the  British  war  ships  Phoebe  and  Cherub.  I  could  not  help 
while  looking  on  his  fine,  firm  countenance,  thinking  that  "  blood 
will  tell,"  no  matter  what  carping  critics  may  say  to  the  con- 
trary. We  conversed  for  more  than  an  hour  upon  personal, 
political,  and  war  memories.  I  sent  an  occasional  shot  to  prod 
&nd  elicit  the  Admiral's  rich  and  rare  reminiscences. '  I  tried 
for  the  time  to  be  a  good  listener,  which  is  a  rare  faculty.  He 
referred  with  commendable  pride  to  his  naval  and  army  ances- 
tors, who  figured  prominently  in  the  history  of  the  United  States 
since  the.  Revolutionary  war. 

By  a  twist  in  the  talk,  I  switched  him  off  to  a  description  of 
the  attack  on  Forts  Jackson  and  St.  Philip  and  the  passage  of 


FARRAGUT   AND    PORTER.  29 

Farragut's  fleet  up  through  the  throat  of  the  mammoth  Missis- 
sippi and  on  to  the  final  capture  of  New  Orleans  in  April,  1862. 
His  eyes  brightened  as  I  referred  to  the  terrible  mortar  and 
gunboat  bombardment  on  the  forts  and  their  ready  response 
for  six  days. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  was  placed  in  charge  by  the  Secretary  of 
the  Navy  of  the  mortar  and  gunboat  Flotilla,  more  than  twenty 
crafts,  under  the  general  command  of  Captain  Farragut,  to- 
accomplish  the  destruction  of  the  forts,  rebel  rams,  and  gun- 
boats ;  and  the  ultimate  capture  of  New  Orleans.  History  will 
show  that  such  a  continuous,  red  hot,  blazing  firing,  night  and 
day,  has  seldom  if  ever  been  witnessed  from  frail  wooden  crafts 
on  a  rapid  river  against  seemingly  impregnable  forts,  seige  gunsr 
chains,  hulks,  rams,  and  fire  rafts. 

"  Yet  while  the  heroic  and  unconquerable  Farragut  did  not 
have  an  ironclad  in  his  whole  fleet  of  forty -six  bottoms,  he 
managed  to  surmount  every  obstacle  and  reduced  the  strongest 
works  of  the  Confederacy,  dealing  a  blow  to  the  rebel  cause 
that  it  never  survived,  and  leading  the  way  for  General  Grant, 
about  a  year  later,  to  baffle  Pemberton  and  Johnston  and  force 
the  surrender  of  Vicksburg. 

"  Farragut  well  knew  the  boasted  strength  of  New  Orleans  and 
its  fortified  vicinity,  but  he  also  knew  that  with  such  brave  sub- 
ordinates as  Bailey,  Bell,  Boggs,  Morris,  Alden,  Craven,  and 
Caldwell  he  could  sail  or  steam  through  the  harbors  of  hell  and 
make  the  devil  himself  surrender  ! 

"About  2  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  25th  of  April  the 
whole  fleet  moved  up  the  river  to  pass  the  forts,  chains,  hulks, 
fire-rafts,  and  rams  that  the  enemy  had  prepared  for  our  reception. 

"In  three  hours  the  grand  work  was  accomplished,  after  the 
most  desperate  conflict  I  ever  witnessed.  The  morning  heavens 
were  lit  up,  as  if  volcanic  fires  and  smoke  were  belching  from 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  the  terrible  roar  of  shot,  shell,  and 
bombs  from  forts  and  river  made  a  perfect  pandemonium. 

"By  ii  o'clock  in  the  morning  Farragut  flashed  the  Stars 


30  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

and  Stripes  in  the  very  teeth  of  New  Orleans  and  demanded  of 
Mayor  Monroe  the  surrender  of  the  city  and  the  hoisting  of  the 
old  flag  over  the  custom-house,  mint,  and  city  hall  to  replace 
the  Pellican  flag  that  still  waved  after  the  retreat  of  General 
Lovell. 

"  I  was  ordered  to  remain  with  my  mortar  and  gun  boats  and 
force  the  surrender  of  Forts  St.  Philip  and  Jackson,  which  I  did 
in  forty-eight  hours,  leaving  the  latter  fort  a  mass  of  destruction, 
in  fact  a  complete  wreck,  for  during  the  days  of  the  extended 
bombardment  I  threw  5,000  bombs  and  shells  into  these  devoted 
strongholds  of  rebellion." 

Admiral  Porter  was  at  this  point  interrupted  in  his  extremely 
interesting  story  by  a  message  from  President  Grant,  who  desired 
to  see  him.  I  reluctantly  shook  hands  and  took  my  departure, 
but  strung  another  jewel  on  the  sunlit  chords  of  memory ! 

The  old  hero  now  sleeps  beside  his  loyal  wife  under  the  shady 
oaks  of  Arlington,  to  the  left  of  General  Sheridan  and  in  front 
of  the  mansion  once  inhabited  by  General  Lee.  His  glorious  grave 
is  yet  unmonumented,  but  I  trust  the  Nation  will  not  allow  such 
a  gallant  warrior  to  slumber  in  obscurity,  and,  ere  long,  erect 
over  his  remains  a  great  granite  shaft,  firm  and  conspicuous  as  the 
character  it  will  memorize. 

Congress  should  not  allow  its  naval  heroes  who  have  passed 
to  the  realm  of  shadows  to  be  forgotten.  The  corners,  angles, 
squares,  and  circles  of  Washington  City  must  be  devoted  to 
heroic  statues,  and,  soon  as  possible,  the  first  to  be  honored 
should  be  John  Paul  Jones,  Stephen  Decatur,  William  Bain- 
bridge,  David  D.  Porter,  and  William  B.  Gushing,  the  desperate 
young  hero  that  blew  up  the  rebel  ram  Albemarle,  leading 
thirteen  men  in  the  night  attack,  who  were  all  lost  but  himself. 

A  Republic  thus  honoring  the  memory  of  her  illustrious  sons 
perpetuates  its  own  life ;  and,  as  the  Athenians  and  Romans 
erected  splendid  monuments  to  their  heroic  dead,  so  should"we 
rear  memorials  to  the  brave  men  who  have  fought  and  fell  for 
the  perpetuity  of  this  Republic ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 


SHERIDAN. 

A  FEW  days  before  the  battle  of  Stone  River,  Tenn.,  in  De- 
cember, 1862,  I  first  met  General  Philip  H.  Sheridan.  He 
commanded  an  infantry  division  in  the  Army  of  the  Cumber- 
land, under  the  illustrious  General  Rosecrans.  Standing  in  front 
of  his  tent,  surrounded  by  some  of  his  staff,  on  the  edge  of  a 
clump  of  cedars,  and  looking  toward  the  enemy's  camp,  Sheri- 
dan presented  the  picture  of  a  typical  soldier.  He  could  not 
have  been  more  than  five  foot  six,  and  his  hair  was  beginning 
to  show  strands  of  gray,  while  his  grayish  blue  eyes  peered  into 
the  distance  like  a  flash  from  the  eye  of  Destiny.  His  head  was 
round,  forehead  high  and  square,  with  a  punctuation  point  of  a 
nose  surmounting  a  short  mustache,  firm  lips  and  emphatic 
chin  that  said  to  all  the  world,  "  Clear  the  track  and  make  room 
for  my  command !  " 

His  division  did  the  best  fighting  at  Stone  River  and  saved 
Rosecrans'  right  from  the  repeated  onslaught  of  Hardee  and 
Bragg ;  and  many  months  afterward,  at  Missionary  Ridge,  he 
led  his  dashing  command  over  the  Confederate  breastworks  and 
was  the  first  to  plant  the  Stars  and  Stripes  over  the  shattered 
hosts  of  Bragg  and  Breckinridge. 

When  General  Grant  took  charge  of  the  Army  of  the  Poto- 
mac, in  May,  1864,  he  cast  about  for  some  man  of  nerve, 
dash,  and  judgment  to  take  command  of  the  cavalry  and  knit 
together  the  broken  remnants  of  the  various  divisions  that  had 
become  somewhat  of  a  laughing  stock  with  the  infantry  boys, 
wh*o  repeatedly  offered  large  rewards  to  any  person  who  would 
show  them  a  dead  cavalryman. 

Grant  naturally  determined  to  call  to  his  aid  Sheridan,  who 


32  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

had  been  his  social  comrade  in  the  wilds  of  Oregon  before  the 
war  and  who  had  made  a  mark  in  the  rebellion  not  inferior  to 
any  officer  of  his  rank  in  the  Army.  General  Mead  was  in 
immediate  command  in  the  field  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac, 
which  included  the  cavalry. 

Sheridan  soon  found  that  his  three  divisions  were  ordered 
right  and  left  after  he  crossed  the  Rapidan,  and  while  virtually 
in  command  of  all  the  cavalry  would  often  detach  certain  divi- 
sions and  leave  Sheridan  to  do  the  best  he  could  to  foil  the 
movements  of  Jeb  Stuart,  the  most  illustrious  cavalry  officer  of 
the  Confederacy. 

Sheridan  remonstrated  with  Mead,  and  at  headquarters  on 
one  occasion  gave  his  opinion  in  no  uncertain  words  and  bolted 
out  of  the  tent  with  exclamations  of  insubordination.  Mead 
soon  after  repeated  the  incident  to  General  Grant  and  com- 
plained of  Sheridan's  talk  and  action.  Grant  asked  him,  what 
did  Sheridan  say  ?  Mead  replied  that  Sheridan  wanted  direct 
and  absolute  charge  of  the  cavalry,  and  if  he  was  allowed  the 
privilege  he  would  go  right  on  and  whip  hell  out  of  Jeb  Stuart. 
"  Did  Sheridan  say  that  ?  "  "  Yes ;  "  replied  Mead.  "  Then," 
said  the  General,  "  I'd  let  him  go  out  and  do  it !  " 

The  world  has  long  since  known  how  the  hero  of  Winchester 
and  Appomattox  went  over  the  hills  and  vales  of  Virginia  like 
the  roar  of  thunder  and  death-dealing  strokes  of  lightning.  He 
whipped  Stuart's  cavalry,  as  he  promised,  and  killed  the  com- 
mander. A  Texas  blizzard  or  a  West  India  cyclone  were  not 
more  deadly  in  their  whirling  course  than  Sheridan  when  pur- 
suing an  enemy,  with  10,000  troopers  at  his  back.  His  eye  and 
mind  grasped  the  situation  in  all  its  details  and  his  presence  at 
any  one  point  during  a  battle  was  worth  i  ,000  men. 

A  few  days  after  the  great  Chicago  fire  I  visited  that  city 
from  St.  Louis  in  company  with  Orville  Grant.  Sheridan's 
Sheridan's  headquarters  were  there  at  the  time,  and  through 
his  active  instrumentality  thousands  of  famished  citizens  re- 
ceived food  and  shelter.  Many  bless  his  memory  to  this 


SHERIDAN.  33 

» 

day  for  the  immediate  relief  furnished  by  the  Government. 
Half  of  the  city  was  laid  in  ashes.  While  riding  about  the 
smouldering  ruins  with  Orville  Grant  I  could  see  on  every  hand 
tents  that  had  been  issued  by  the  military  arm  of  the  United 
States  to  shelter  weary  and  destitute  people. 

The  business  house  of  Grant  &  McLean,  located  on  Lake 
street,  was  destroyed  and  their  stock  of  leather,  harness,  and 
saddles  went  up  in  smoke.  Orville  was  $40,000  worse  than 
nothing.  He  still  had  his  little  frame  house  on  Wabash  avenue, 
so  far  out  that  the  fire  failed  to  reach  it.  I  remained  at  his  house 
with  his  wife  and  four  children  two  days,  but  before  I  left  assisted 
him  in  business. 

The  evening  before  I  started  back  to  St.  Louis,  he  suggested 
that  we  call  on  General  Sheridan,  who  was  privately  located  in 
bachelor  quarters,  on  Michigan  avenue  about  four  blocks  away 
from  the  house  of  Orville.  I  was  glad  to  accept  the  invitation, 
as  I  had  not  seen  the  General  since  the  war  and  felt  that  a 
few  hours  in  his  presence  could  be  spent  with  pleasure  and 
profit.  The  house  was  a  modern  one,  plain  and  well  furnished, 
looking  out  on  the  rolling  waves  of  Lake  Michigan  as  they  beat 
in  rhythmic  tattoo  on  the  sandy  beach  or  dashed  over  the  stony 
breakwater  that  stretched  away  in  the  glimmering  twilight. 

Grant  and  myself  were  ushered  into  the  parlor,  and  soon  after 
Sheridan  appeared,  greeting  us  with  that  offhand  sincerity  that 
characterized  all  his  movements.  We  talked  for  some  time 
about  the  awful  catastrophe  that  had  visted  the  Garden  City, 
and  the  General  talked  and  acted  as  if  he  had  suffered  a  per- 
sonal loss  in  the  widespread  destruction. 

Finally,  about  10  o'clock,  we  made  a  motion  to  retire,  but  he 
asked  us  to  remain  a  little  longer,  while  he  disappeared  for  a  few 
moments  and  then  returned.  Soon  after  a  servant  appeared 
with  a  large  decanter  of  brandy  and  three  glasses.  He  placed 
the  Bacchanalian  instruments  on  a  marble  center-table  and 
departed.  The  General  asked  us  to  help  ourselves,  saying : 
"  There  is  some  first-class  brandy  that  a  friend  sent  me.  I  want 


34  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

you  to  try  it,  and  if  you  like  it  we  will  have  some  more."  Grant 
and  myself  filled  our  glasses,  as  did  also  the  General,  and  we 
drank  his  health ;  and  I,  to  punctuate  the  toast,  included  the 
black  horse  that  he  rode  at  Winchester.  Each  of  us  saw  the 
bottom  of  his  glass,  and  I  noticed  at  the  mention  of  the  black 
horse  the  General's  eyes  snapped  fire  as  if  he  was  once  again 
in  the  saddle,  rushing  down  the  pike  toward  Cedar  Creek  to 
turn  retreat  into  victory. 

I  remarked,  General,  won't  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  us 
some  of  the  details  of  that  famous  ride  of  yours  that  Buchanan 
Read  has  immortalized  in  poetry,  and  on  the  spur  of  the  moment 
I  quoted  this  verse — 

"  The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops. 
What  was  done,  what  to  do,  a  glance  told  him  both, 
And  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath, 
He  dashed  down  the  line  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  coure  there  because 
The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause  !  " 

The  General  smiled  and  said :  "  Joyce,  I  am  afraid  the  poet 
did  more  for  Sheridan  than  he  ever  did  for  himself.  Read  was 
here  some  time  ago  and  took  dinner  with  me.  That  marble 
bas-relief  on  the  mantel-piece  of  Rienzi  and  myself  dashing 
down  the  Winchester  pike  was  presented  by  some  of  his  friends. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  the  strength  and  spirit  of  that  black  horse 
out  in  the  stable,  pointing  to  the  rear,  I  doubt  very  much  whether 
I'd  have  got  on  the  field  in  time  to  turn  the  boys  back,  recover 
our  camps,  and  thrash  Early  before  dark ! 

"  You  may  know  I  had  been  up  to  Washington  for  a  day  or 
so  to  consult  with  President  Lincoln  and  Secretary  Stanton  on 
the  situation  in  the  Valley,  and  left  Crook,  Wright,  Merritt,  and 
Custer  to  take  care  of  things  until  I  returned,  not  thinking  that 
Early  would  take  the  offensive,  remembering  the  lesson  I  taught 
him  the  month  before  at  Fisher's  Hill. 

"  But  very  early,  in  fact  before  daylight,  on  the  igth  of  Octo- 


SHERIDAN.  35 

her,  an  officer  came  to  my  temporary  headquarters,  near  Win- 
chester, and  reported  continuous  firing  at  the  front.  I  had  just 
got  back  from  Washington.  I  told  the  officer  to  find  out  what 
he  could  and  report  again.  I  took  things  leisurely,  not  think- 
ing but  my  officers  at  the  front  could  hold  their  own  with  Early 
in  any  event. 

"  Yet,  after  a  hasty  breakfast,  I  became  somewhat  alarmed  at 
the  reports  that  came  in  and  prepared  at  once  to  rush  to  the 
front.  With  Major  Forsyth  and  Captain  O'Keefe,  of  my  staff, 
and  about  twenty  men  as  an  escort,  I  dashed  away  from  my 
headquarters  through  the  town  of  Winchester  about  9  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  leaving  Colonel  Edwards  in  command  to  stop 
stragglers.  I  could  see  from  the  faces  of  the  citizens,  and  par- 
ticularly from  the  action  of  the  women,  that  something  unusual 
of  good  news  had  reached  them  by  grapevine  telegraph. 

"After  I  had  crossed  over  the  hill,  beyond  Mill  Creek,  I  be- 
held the  first  view  of  my  panic-stricken  army.  Hundreds  of 
slightly  wounded  men,  clumps  of  frightened  stragglers,  mules, 
horses,  cattle,  ambulances,  and  baggage  wagons  by  the  score 
blocked  up  the  road  or  dashed  about  through  the  fields  to  find 
a  way  to  the  rear. 

"As  soon  as  the  boys  saw  me  they  threw  up  their  hats,  gave 
some  wild  cheers,  shouldered  their  guns,  and  paused  in  their 
onward  flight.  I  checked  up  a  moment  amid  a  mob  of  my 
broken  ranks,  took  off  my  hat,  gave  them  a  loud  cheer  and 
impulsively  cried,  '  Boys,  if  I  had  been  with  you  this  morning 
this  thing  would  not  have  happened.  We  must  face  the  other 
way.  We  will  go  back  and  recover  our  camps.'  They  gave 
prolonged  cheers,  and  I  could  see  that  my  words  of  encourage- 
ment flushed  their  eyes  and  faces  with  enthusiasm,  while  the 
line  officers  were  already  endeavoring  to  bring  order  out  of 
chaos  and  reorganize  their  men  for  fight. 

"  I  put  spurs  to  Rienzi  and  once  more  galloped  down  the 
pike  through  straggling  men  and  broken  wagons,  through  the 
village  of  Newton,  often  leaving  the  choked-up  road  for  the 


36  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

open  fields  and  cheering  the  men  as  I  went  along,  appealing  to 
them  to  turn  back,  and  I  must  say  they  halted  to  look  after  me,  and 
their  cheers  even  to  this  day  ring  in  my  ears  and  thrill  my  heart. 

"Among  the  first  of  my  generals  to  meet  me  was  the  gallant 
Torbert,  who  threw  his  arms  around  me  and  exclaimed,  '  My 
God,  I'm  glad  you've  come!'  About  10:30  or  n  o'clock  I 
was  in  the  midst  of  my  command,  and  soon  communicated  with 
Crook,  Wright,  Custer,  and  Emory,  the  latter  holding  the  enemy 
at  bay  and  repulsing  many  of  his  frantic  dashes.  I  felt  very 
much  humiliated  to  think  that  our  morning  camps  on  Cedar 
Creek  and  my  headquarters  at  Belle  Grove  House,  munitions 
of  war  lost ;  many  of  my  men  unburied  in  front  and  prisoners 
in  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 

"  Custer  and  Merritt  were  forming  their  cavalry  for  immediate 
fight.  Wright,  Crook,  McMillen,  and  McKenzie,  although 
wounded,  were  rallying  their  men.  By  i  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon I  was  at  the  far  front,  and  casting  my  eyes  to  the  right  and 
left  I  could  see  that  various  regiments  and  brigades  were  getting 
into  place  and  bracing  up  for  defense  and  a  forward  movement. 

"  I  intended,  in  my  heart,  before  night  closed  down  to  retake 
our  camps  on  Cedar  Creek  and  occupy  my  headquarters  at  Belle 
Grove  House  or  boldly  sacrifice  the  balance  of  my  Army.  The 
Nineteenth,  Sixth,  and  Crook's  Corps  were  in  good  shape  at  4 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  about  that  time  I  ordered  Custer 
to  lead  off  in  a  quick  charge  to  the  front  and  wake  up  the 
'  Johnnies,'  who  seemed  to  be  hesitating  as  to  what  they  should 
do  with  their.morning  victory. 

"  My  advance  was  evidently  a  surprise  to  Early,  and  when 
my  infantry  got  in  their  murderous  work  with  the  crackling  roar 
of  musketry  I  could  see  that  we  regained  our  lost  ground  rap- 
idly. To  make  a  long  story  short,  by  sunset  we  had  the  enemy 
on  the  dead  run  across  Cedar  Creek  and  far  beyond,  with  thou- 
sands of  prisoners  in  our  hands,  many  captured  flags,  stacks  of 
small  arms,  transportation  material,  and  more  than  forty  pieces 
of  artillery. 


SHERIDAN.  37 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  I  must  say  that  I  never  felt  prouder  of  a 
day's  work  in  my  life  than  that  performed  on  the  iQth  of  Octo- 
ber, 1864.  I  felt  that  the  power  of  the  rebel  army  in  the  Shen- 
andoah  Valley  was  lost  forever,  and  that  their  supply  garden 
would  henceforth  furnish  food  for  Union  soldiers  or  be  utterly 
destroyed. 

"  In  winding  up  my  campaign  in  the  Valley  'I  found  it  a  mili- 
tary necessity  to  destroy  some  of  the  mills,  grain,  and  hay  that 
had  served  the  enemy  in  their  rebellion  against  the  Govern- 
ment. For  this  I  have  been  roundly  abused  and  damned  to  the 
echo,  but  the  censure  of  an  enemy  I  always  regarded  as  praise, 
and  since  I  satisfied  General  Grant  and  President  Lincoln,  my 
superior  officers,  I  could  well  ignore  the  ravings  of  the  enemies 
of  my  country. 

"  Now,  boys,  I  have  told  my  little  story.  Let's  try  a  little 
more  brandy,  and  we'll  go  out  to  the  stable  and  pay  our  respects 
to  Rienzi,  the  gallant  beast  that  turned  defeat  into  victory  at 
Winchester." 

Sheridan  stood  behind  the  horse  with  his  hand  on  his  flank, 
and  the  noble  animal  gave  a  short,  low  whinny  as  the  General 
said,  "  Boys,  what  do  you  think  of  him  ?  "  Grant  was  a  fine 
judge  of  a  horse,  and  expressed  his  opinion  as  an  expert.  1 
could  see  that  the  horse  was  jet  black,  with  fine  features,  clean- 
cut  ears,  about  sixteen  hands  high,  with  strong  legs  and  three 
white  feet,  but  to  my  poetic  mind  I  could  only  see  Rienzi  as 
another  Bucephalus  who  would  shine  down  the  centuries  with  his 
heroic  master — 

"  And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky — 
The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame — 
There  with  the  glorious  General's  name, 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright: 
Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester— twenty  miles  away!" 


CHAPTER  V. 


«  SHERMAN. 

GEN.  WILLIAM  TECUMSEH  SHERMAN  was  the  most  brilliant 
soldier  of  the  late  war.  He  was  born  in  the  Buckeye  State, 
where  his  comrades  Grant  and  Sheridan  first  saw  the  light  of 
life ;  and,  taken  altogether,  Ohio  can  count  this  great  triumvirate 
of  illustrious  heroes  as  the  best  product  of  her  soil. 

They  were  graduates  of  West  Point,  and  in  youth  had  no 
wealth  or  great  friends  to  push  them  to  fortune  and  fame,  but 
with  that  pluck  and  perseverance  that  characterizes  greatness 
they  pushed  on  to  the  pinnacle  of  earthly  renown. 

Sherman  divined  the  purposes  of  the  Confederate  leaders 
more  clearly  than  any  soldier  or  citizen  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war.  In  January,  1861,  before  the  fire  on  Sumter,  he  was  presi- 
dent of  the  Military  Academy  of  Louisiana  and  had  taught  the 
young  bloods  of  the  South  the  science  of  military  movements. 
Many  of  his  West  Point  schoolmates  circled  about  his  institu- 
tion, and  often  at  the  banquet  board  he  met  Bragg,  Beauregard, 
Twigs,  Johnston,  and  the  Governor  of  the  State,  with  his  staff, 
as  well  as  the  richest  planters  and  fairest  women  that  the  Peli- 
can State  could  produce.  State  after  State  of  the  South  were 
passing  ordinances  of  secession  and  wheeling  into  the  vortex  of 
rebellion  and  raising  armies  to  resist  the  logic  of  the  election  of 
Mr.  Lincoln  as  President  of  the  United  States.  Sherman  saw 
and  felt  the  desperate  determination  of  the  Southern  leaders, 
and,  stating  that  his  fealty  and  loyalty  must  forever  remain  for 
the  Union,  he  resigned  the  presidency  of  the  Military  Academy 
and  came  North  to  await  the  overt  act  of  treason.  Events  were 
multiplying  thick  and  fast,  when,  on  the  I2th  of  April,  1861, 
Beauregard  shot  down  the  flag  floating  over  Fort  Sumter,  and 
(38) 


SHERMAN.  39 

on  the  I4th  Major  Anderson  with  his  heroic  band  of  loyal  sol- 
diers were  marched  out  as  prisoners  of  war,  paroled,  and  sent 
North.  Sherman  was  in  St.  Louis  at  the  time  and  was  em- 
ployed as  president  of  a  street  railroad  company,  but  was  soon 
after  appointed  as  colonel  of  the  Thirteenth  United  States  In- 
fantry, one  of  the  new  regiments  called  into  being  by  President 
Lincoln.  In  June,  '61,  he  was  on  the  staff  of  General  Scott, 
with  headquarters  on  Seventeenth  street,  opposite  the  War  De- 
partment, but  about  the  middle  of  July  he  took  command  of  a 
brigade  located  at  Fort  Corcoran,  on  the  bluffs  across  the  Poto- 
mac from  Georgetown.  He  had  five  regiments  and  Ayers' 
battery  of  artillery.  Among  the  noted  regiments  of  his  com- 
mand were  the  Seventy-ninth  New  York,  Colonel  Cameron's 
Scotch,  and  the  Sixty-ninth  New  York,  Colonel  Corcoran's 
Irish,  who  did  the  best  fighting  of  any  of  the  troops  at  the  first 
battle  of  Bull  Run,  and  who  formed  squares  against  the  "  black 
horse  cavalry  "  and  protected  the  rear  on  the  disorderly  retreat 
of  the  Union  forces  to  the  banks  of  the  Potomac.  Colonel 
Cameron,  of  the  Seventy-ninth,  was  killed  and  Colonel  Corcoran, 
of  the  Sixty-ninth,  was  wounded  and  taken  prisoner,  while  his 
gallant,  impulsive  Irishmen  suffered  a  greater  loss  in  killed  and 
wounded  than  any  regiment  in  the  division. 

Sherman  soon  after  appeared  at  Louisville,  Ky.,  and  relieved 
General  Anderson  of  the  command  of  the  Department  of  the 
Cumberland,  which  he  voluntarily  relinquished  on  account  of 
suffocation  and  nervous  prostration  that  clung  to  him  since  the 
desperate  fires  of  Sumpter.  Sherman  only  stayed  in  command 
about  two  months  and  was  relieved  by  General  Buell.  The 
story  was  sent  afloat  through  the  New  York  Tribune  and  Cin- 
cinnati Commercial  that  he  was  insane,  crazy,  etc.  This  fool 
roorback  arose  out  of  a  council  of  war  held  at  the  Gait  House 
for  the  purpose  of  talking  over  the  situation  in  Kentucky  and 
the  absolute  and  immediate  need  of  more  troops  against  the 
advancing  forces  of  General  Buckner  and  Gen.  Albert  Sidney 
Johnston,  who  were  within  a  day's  march  of  the  Ohio  River. 


4-O  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

Simon  Cameron,  the  Secretary  of  War,  his  Adjutant  General 
Lorenzo  Thomas  and  official  party  were  present  at  the  confer- 
ence. Sherman  had  then  only  about  18,000  men,  while  the 
enemy  had  at  least  50,000,  and  he,  in  that  square,  blunt  man- 
ner, informed  the  Secretary  of  War  that  60,000  men  were  needed 
immediately  to  protect  the  center  of  the  grand  Union  line  from 
East  to  West,  and  that  before  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  and 
Georgia  could  be  redeemed  from  rebel  sway  it  would  take  more 
than  200,000  men !  Cameron  jumped  from  the  bed  where  he 
he  was  reclining  and  exclaimed,  "  My  God  !  where  are  you  to 
get  the  men  ?  "  Sherman  replied  that  there  were  thousands  in 
the  North  ready  to  enlist  and  fight,  and  it  was  the  business  of 
the  War  Department  to  equip  them  and  send  them  to  the  front. 
This  shot  staggered  "  Simple  Simon  "  and  his  adjutant  general, 
who  left  that  afternoon  for  Washington,  and  in  a  few  days  we 
only  heard  of  "  Crazy  Sherman  "  on  the  outskirts  of  Halleck's 
staff  in  Missouri,  and  then  on  leave  of  absence  with  his  family 
at  Lancaster,  Ohio.  But  the  restless  spirit  of  this  loyal,  pro- 
phetic, heroic  warrior  could  not  be  cribbed,  coffined,  or  confined 
by  the  jealous  midgets  of  mediocrity  or  the  barbed  arrows  of 
journalistic  gerrymanders.  We  soon  find  him  in  command  of 
Benton  Barracks,  at  St.  Louis  ;  then  at  Paducah,  and  after  the 
capture  of  Fort  Donelson  moving  up  the  Tennessee  on  trans- 
ports with  a  newly-formed  division,  composed  of  four  brigades, 
mostly  raw  troops  from  the  rural  districts  of  Ohio,  Illinois,  and 
Indiana.  He  picked  out  his  camping  ground  near  Pittsburg 
Landing,  three  miles  out  on  the  Corinth  road,  where  Albert 
Sidney  Johnston  was  collecting  an  army  to  crush  the  Union 
forces  ;  and  around  the  gray  eagle  Sherman  more  than  40,000 
Union  soldiers  collected  under  the  command  of  General  Grant, 
and  finally  won  one  of  the  most  decisive  battles  of  the  war. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  Tuesday  morning  after  the  fight  as  I 
strolled  over  to  Sherman's  division  and  beheld  the  hero  perched 
on  a  stump  making  one  of  the  most  scorching  speeches  I  ever 
heard.  1*  seemed  that  in  the  Sunday  fight  Hildebrand's  and 


SHERMAN.  41 

Buckland's  Ohio  brigades  gave  way  at  the  first  onslaught  of  the 
dashing  enemy,  and  many  of  the  regiments  were  literally  torn  to- 
pieces  and  scattered  during  the  balance  of  the  conflict.  Sherman 
was  trying  to  collect  the  remnant  of  the  officers  and  men  of  these 
brigades,  and  this  is  about  the  way  he  addressed  the  soldier 
mob  that  listened  to  him  with  the  deepest  humiliation  :  "  You 
are  a  nice  set  of  soldiers.  Many  of  your  officers  acted  like 
dastard  cowards,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  some  of  them  are 
now  feeding  fish  in  the  Tennessee  River  or  making  tracks  for 
their  homes  in  the  North.  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  and  instead  of 
running  away  from  these  infernal  rebels  and  dragging  your 
general  after  you,  you  should  have  stood  like  men  and  died  for 
that  splendid  flag  that  waves  over  that  tattered  tent.  What  in 
the  devil  did  you  enlist  for  if  it  was  not  to  fight  and  die  for  the 
Union.  Far  better  had  you  remained  in  your  father's  field  hoe- 
ing potatoes,  pulling  pumpkins  or  at  the  counter  measuring  tape 
or  sanding  sugar  than  act  in  such  disgraceful  manner  before  the 
enemy.  Had  all  the  boys  done  as  you  did  we'd  be  already 
en  route  for  Libby  prison  or  Andersonville.  You  must  always 
remember  that  we  hail  from  the  grand  old  pioneer  State  of  the 
Northwest,  the  land  of  Mad  Anthony  Wayne,  Joshua  Giddings,. 
Tom  Corwin,  Ben  Wade,  and  Gen.  William  Henry  Harrison,, 
and  hereafter  in  battle  I  want  you  to  die  first  and  run  afterward  I 
I  intend  to  have  some  of  your  officers  dismissed  from  the  Army, 
and  had  I  my  own  way  I  would  order  now  a  drum-head  court- 
martial  and  have  at  least  a  half  dozen  of  them  shot !  Look 
around  you  this  morning,  after  the  battle,  and  see  your  com- 
rades in  clumps  under  the  branches  of  these  torn  oaks  sleeping, 
in  death,  the  long  sweet  sleep  of  heroic  warriors.  Hereafter  imitate 
their  glorious  example  and  in  future  fights  stand  like  a  rock 
against  the  enemy,  striking  to  the  death  for  God  and  your  native 
land ! " 

This  was  the  most  remarkable  speech  I  ever  heard,  and  I 
inwardly  congratulated  myself  that  I  belonged  to  the  Twenty- 
fourth  Kentucky  and  not  to  any  of  the  regiments  that  ran  away. 


42  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

His  speech  was  received  in  somber  silence,  and  the  rain  from 
the  dripping  branches,  mingling  with  the  moan  of  the  April 
winds,  were  the  only  sounds  that  disturbed  this  military  philippic. 

We,  of  course,  know  that  General  Sherman  rose  step  by 
step  by  the  greatness  of  his  own  genius.  Along  the  Missis- 
sippi, on  to  Vicksburg,  Missionary  Ridge,  Knoxville,  and  his 
great  march  from  Chattanooga  to  Atlanta  and  the  sea,  reminds 
the  historic  and  intelligent  reader  of  the  career  of  Alexander 
the  Great,  who  ascended  the  throne  of  Macedon  and  Greece 
when  only  twenty,  and  conquered  the  eastern  world  at  the  age 
of  thirty -two.  With  40,000  Greeks  he  invaded  Asia  and  Persia, 
and,  after  a  series  of  desperate  battles,  on  to  Arbela,  Granicus, 
and  the  Indus.  He  routed  and  conquered  more  than  i  ,000,000 
men  led  by  the  voluptuous  and  illustrious  Darius  and  placed 
the  petty  potentates  of  the  Oriental  world  under  his  feet.  The 
march  of  Sherman  from  Chattanooga  to  the  sea,  and  the  rapid, 
continuous  skirmishes  and  battles  through  Georgia  from  the 
5th  of  May,  1864,  to  the  22d  of  December,  when  he  rode  tri- 
umphantly into  the  city  of  Savannah,  equal  in  rapidity  and 
importance  the  movements  of  the  illustrious  Macedonian. 

I'll  never  forget  a  midnight,  morning,  personal  experience  I 
had  with  the  General  and  Colonel  Dayton,  of  his  staff.  It  was 
two  days  before  the  assault  on  Kenesaw  Mountain,  where  Joe 
Johnson  had  strongly  intrenched  himself  and  awaited  the  attack 
of  his  antagonist,  the  great  flanker.  My  regiment,  the  Twenty- 
fourth  Kentucky,  had  been  skirmishing  through  the  afternoon 
and  even  after  sunset  on  the  extreme  right  of  our  line,  only 
Stoneman's  cavalry  hanging  around  our  flanks.  When  night 
closed  with  desultory  musketry  firing,  my  regiment,  which  occu- 
pied the  right  of  Cox's  division  and  Cameron's  brigade,  threw 
out  a  strong  line  of  skirmishes  along  the  Sandtown  road  and 
near  Olley's  Creek,  where  General  Schofield,  the  commander  of 
the  Twenty-third  Army  Corps,  had  established  his  headquarters. 

I  was  adjutant  of  the  Twenty-fourth  Kentucky  at  the  time, 
young  and  enthusiastic,  caring  little  for  consequence  and  less  for 


SHERMAN.  43 

sleep.  About  two  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  25th  of 
June,  while  a  drizzling  rain  pattered  through  the  trees  on  the 
slumbering  soldiers,  wrapped  in  their  gum  blankets,  I  rose 
from  a  fitful  slumber  and  concluded  to  go  to  the  front  and  see 
how  the  officer  of  the  day  and  the  pickets  were  doing  their  duty. 
I  was  tired  and  hungry,  but  as  we  were  on  the  eve  of  battle 
I  wanted  to  be  on  the  alert  for  the  benefit  of  the  regiment  and 
not  let  the  "  boys  in  gray  "  get  the  bulge  on  us.  With  haver- 
sack, canteen,  coffee  can,  and  gum  poncho  I  quietly  made  my 
way  through  the  sleeping  regiment,  passed  the  guards,  and  in 
a  short  time  reached  the  picket  line,  where  I  found  Captain 
Barber,  the  officer  of  the  day,  making  his  rounds  of  a  half  mile 
in  conjunction  with  his  brother  officers  of  the  brigade.  In 
passing  back  to  the  regiment  near  a  brook  with  abrupt  banks  I 
met  John  Caldwell,  Jim  Jackson,  and  Reube  Warner,  of  my 
regiment,  standing  picket,  the  extreme  infantry  outpost  of 
Sherman's  army.  I  saw  that  under  a  jutting  rock  the  boys 
had  made  a  smudge  fire  to  heat  up  some  coffee.  I  remon- 
strated with  them  for  the  recklessness  of  the  thing,  knowing 
that  the  enemy  were  just  across  the  creek,  not  500  yards  away. 
However,  I  told  Coldwell  to  move  out  some  fifty  yards  farther 
and  I  would  tend  to  the  cooking  of  the  coffee,  for  I  was  nearly 
famished  myself.  I  dodged  behind  the  rock,  took  off  my  own 
coffee  can,  filled  it  with  water  and  coffee,  set  it  on  the  fire  with 
the  other  two  cans,  and  began  to  pile  on  some  dry  pine  twigs 
that  I  found  at  the  root  of  a  tree.  It  was  not  long  until  the 
coffee  began  to  boil,  and  my  heart  went  out  to  the  aroma  it  ex- 
haled. At  this  moment  I  heard  Warner  exclaim,  "  Halt !  who 
comes  there  ?  "  The  response  came,  "A  friend  with  the  coun- 
tersign." "  Dismount,  advance,  and  give  the  countersign."  A 
tall  form  with  slouch  hat  and  poncho  cape  advanced,  gave  the 
countersign,  as  did  also  his  companion.  I  stepped  up  immedi- 
ately and  saluted  the  General  and  his  aid,  who  knew  me  per- 
sonally. Sherman  asked  me  if  all  was  well.  I  told  him  that 
every  man  was  at  his  post  and  ready  for  a  fight.  I  stood  be- 
tween the  smouldering  fire  and  the  General,  to  prevent  him  from 


44  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

seeing  the  situation,  but  his  lynx  eyes  and  distended  nostrils  could 
not  be  deceived.  He  said,  "Adjutant,  how  is  this  ?  Have  you 
not  strict  orders  that  no  fires  shall  be  made  in  front  of  the 
enemy  ?  "  I  replied  that  what  he  saw  was  only  a  semblance  of  a 
fire,  and  not  a  fire,  and  what  he  smelt  was  only  a  couple  of  cans 
of  coffee  that  the  boys  had  put  on  to  warm.  "  Let  me  see 
how  warm  that  coffee  is."  I  stepped  to  the  smouldering  fire 
and  brought  him  my  can  of  coffee,  which  was  red  hot,  and  as 
black  as  your  hat.  He  took  hold  of  the  wire  bail,  lifted  it  to 
his  lips  very  carefully,  took  a  mouthful,  and  said,  "  Here,  Day- 
ton, take  a  dose  of  that."  The  aid  complied  to  his  sorrow,  and 
with  a  grimace  that  said,  "Oh  !  hell,"  passed  the  can  back  to 
the  General,  who  poured  out  a  small  part  of  the  coffee  and 
asked  me  to  fill  it  up  with  water  from  my  canteen.  I  did  so, 
and  then  the  General  drank  two-thirds  of  the  contents,  passed 
the  balance  to  Dayton,  who  finished  it.  They  mounted  their 
horses,  and  as  the  General  turned  to  the  rear,  said  in  a  half 
quizzical  tone :  "  Remember,  '  boys,'  no  fire  in  camp,  but  at  the 
enemy ! " 

Inside  of  forty-eight  hours  after  this  interview  the  corps  of 
Thomas,  McPherson,  and  Schofield  were  moving  to  the  front 
and  tightening  their  lines  of  steel  around  the  rocky  ribs  of  Ken- 
nesaw  Mountain.  Wave  after  wave  of  bluecoats  dashed  against 
the  fortified  stronghold  of  Gen.  Joe  Johnston,  and  for  nearly 
three  hours  Sherman  tried  in  vain  to  dislodge  the  foe,  and 
finally  drew  away  to  the  right  flank,  which  caused  the  retreat  of 
the  enemy  to  the  Chattahoochee  River  and  the  fortified  sur- 
roundings of  Atlanta.  The  battle  of  Kennesaw  Mountain  was 
the  first  repulse  that  Sherman  received  in  his  grand  march  to 
the  sea  and  taught  him  the  lesson  not  to  attack  insurmountable 
heights  when  he  could  flank  to  right  or  left  and  accomplish  the 
same  result  with  less  loss  of  limb  and  life. 

I  was  shot  through  the  upper  right  thigh  in  this  engagement 
while  leading  my  regiment  against  rifle  pits  at  the  base  of  this 
mountain,  and  thus  received  a  leave  of  absence  from  the  Army 
from  that  27th  of  June,  1864. 


SHERMAN.  45 

I  met  General  Sherman  several  times  after  the  war  in  Wash- 
ington, St.  Louis,  and  New  York  in  social  and  Grand  Army 
banquet  boards.  In  June,  1875,  the  General  had  his  headquar- 
ters on  Olive  street,  St.  Louis,  having  removed  from  Washing- 
ton on  account  of  some  disagreement  with  General  Belknap, 
then  Secretary  of  War. 

I  called  at  the  General's  office  one  morning  to  buy  a  copy  of 
his  "  Memoirs,"  that  had  just  been  issued  from  the  press  of 
Appleton  &  Co.,  of  New  York.  A  pile  of  the  books  lay  on 
his  desk.  I  expressed  my  desire  to  purchase  the  two  volumes, 
and  asked  him  to  put  his  name  on  the  fly  leaf.  He  immedi- 
ately picked  up  his  pen  and  wrote  the  following  phrases : 

Inscribed  to  my  friend  and  fellow  soldier,  Lieut.  Col.  John  A. 
Joyce,  who  bears  an  honorable  wound  received  at  Kennesaw. 

With  the  compliments  and  best  wishes  of— 

W.  T.  SHERMAN,  General. 

ST.  Louis,  Mo.,  June  24,  1875. 

I  shook  hands  with  the  General,  passed  through  the  office, 
lingered  a  few  moments  to  chat  with  his  staff — the  genial  and 
handsome  Audenried,  the  brave  and  heroic  Tourtelott,  and  the 
gallant  Whipple. 

More  than  eight  years  afterward,  when  the  General  had  retired 
from  the  Army,  I  sent  him  a  copy  of  my  book,  "A  Checkered 
Life,"  and  received  from  him  the  following  letter : 

912  GARRISON  AVENUE,  ST.  Louis,  Mo. 

Col.  JOHN  A.  JOYCE,  Georgetown,  D.  C.  : 

I  thank  you  for  remembering  us  in  the  distribution  of  your  most 
interesting  volume,  entitled  "A  Checkered  Life."  So  far  as  the 
military  events  therein  described,  which  have  fallen  within  the  span 
of  my  personal  observation,  they  are  wonderfully  accurate.  Your 
poetic  flights  and  fancies  are  not  in  my  line,  but  they  surely  give 
great  interest  to  your  book. 

As  you  know,  I  have  always  wished  you  well  and  all  the  happi- 
ness possible  in  life,  to  which  end  the  respect  of  your  neighbors  and 
acquaintances  is  a  large  factor. 

I  am  now  out  of  public  office  and  can  look  with  philosophic  com- 
posure on  the  great  amphitheater  of  life,  ready  to  laugh  with  the 
audience  or  to  cry  in  sympathy  with  the  wronged  and  afflicted. 
Yours,  sincerely,  \V.  T.  SHERMAN. 


46  JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 

GEN.   JOHN    M.    SCHOFIELD. 

Gen.  John  M.  Schofield  was  born  in  Chautauqua  County, 
N.  Y.,  September  29,  1831,  and  graduated  from  West  Point  in 
the  class  of  1853,  being  assigned  to  the  artillery. 

In  May,  1861,  just  after  the  fire  on  Fort  Sumter,  he  became 
chief  of  General  Lyon's  staff  and  operated  through  the  early 
fights  for  freedom  in  Missouri  and  distinguished  himself  at  the 
battle  of  Wilson's  Creek,  wearing  a  medal  of  honor  for  special 
gallantry. 

General  Schofield  commanded  the  Department  of  the  Ohio 
throughout  the  year  1864  and  rendered  valuable  service  to 
General  Sherman  in  his  campaign  against  Gen.  Joseph  E.  John- 
ston through  the  swollen  waters  and  rugged  mountain  passes 
of  Tennessee  and  Georgia. 

I  was  introduced  to  him  personally  by  Gen.  J.  D.  Cox,  my 
division  commander,  at  the  battle  of  Resaca  and  noticed  his 
coolness  and  persistency  down  to  the  27th  of  June  at  Kennesaw 
Mountain,  where  I  received  my  discharge  from  the  United  States 
service.  The  Confederates,  no  doubt,  fully  intended  to  make  me 
an  angel,  but  through  some  inscrutable  Providence  I  have  been 
left  over  to  write  poetry  for  the  edification  of  a  suffering  nation ! 

General  Schofield  fought  the  battle  of  Franklin,  Tenn.,  on  No- 
vember 30,  1864,  one  of  the  bloodiest  fights  of  the  war  for  the 
number  engaged  in  action.  The  Confederate  general,  John  B. 
Hood,  whom  I  knew  in  boyhood  at  Mount  Sterling,  Ky.,  opposed 
Schofield,  and,  while  he  fought  desperately  for  his  cause,  suf- 
fered a  terrible  defeat,  losing  1,750  killed,  3,800  wounded,  and 
700  prisoners,  while  the  entire  loss  of  the  Union  Army  in  killed, 
wounded,  and  missing  was  only  2,300!  Soldiers  alone  can 
understand  this  great  defeat  and  victory. 

General  Schofield  is  a  well-rounded  man,  very  firm,  but  kind 
to  those  who  do  their  duty,  and  while  he  may  not  rank  with  Grant, 
Sherman,  and  Sheridan,  he  has  convinced  his  grateful  country 
that  he  is  large  enough  to  wear  the  shoulder-straps  of  a  Lieuten- 
ant General  and  will  wear  them  with  dignity  and  unsullied  honor. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


GRANT. 

ON  THE  corner  of  Thirty-second  and  U  streets,  West  Wash- 
ington, D.  C.,  four  blocks  west  of  Oak  Hill  Cemetery,  stands  a 
large  double  brick  mansion  on  the  top  of  a  hill  250  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  Potomac.  Two  acres  and  a  quarter  of  land 
belong  to  the  place,  and  the  house  sits  amid  cedars,  pines,  ma- 
ples, oaks,  vines,  flowers,  and  shrubbery,  where  the  breeze  of 
summer  and  keen  blasts  of  winter  play  hide  and  seek  and  birds 
of  rare  plumage  sail  and  sing.  Here  I  have  lived  for  twenty 
years. 

Colonel  Scott,  of  South  Carolina,  built  the  house,  but  when 
the  late  war  began  he  and  his  family  went  South  and  left  the 
property  in  the  hands  of  Josiah  Dent,  late  Commissioner  of  the 
District  of  Columbia.  In  1863  and  1864  the  house  became  the 
headquarters  of  General  Halleck.  When  he  retired  from  the 
command  of  the  Army  General  Grant  came  East,  with  his  fam- 
ily and  staff  took  possession  of  the  mansion,  while  the  General 
was  winding  up  the  rebellion. 

Looking  south  through  the  sunlit  atmosphere  twenty  miles 
away,  you  behold  one  of  the  most  beautiful  scenes  around  Wash- 
ington. Far  to  the  right  can  be  seen  the  rolling  hills  of  the  Old 
Dominion  and  the  Chain  Bridge,  capped  with  the  variegated 
colors  of  spring  or  autumnal  hue,  stretching  away  toward  Lees- 
burg  and  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  Shenandoah.  To  the 
front  you  behold  Fort  Meyer,  Arlington,  Fort  Runyon,  and  the 
famous  Long  Bridge  spanning  the  Potomac,  then  on  to  Alex- 
andria, Fort  Foote,  Fort  Washington,  to  the  tall  hilltops  of 
Mount  Vernon  To  the  left  is  Washington,  stretching  away  in 
artificial  and  natural  beauty,  with  the  great  white  Monument  and 
the  Capitol  shining  in  the  golden  sunlight  of  departing  day. 

(47) 


48  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

I  first  met  General  Grant  at  the  battle  of  Shiloh  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Generals  Buell,  Sherman,  and  Rawlings.  I  was  at  the 
time  a  lieutenant,  and  was  introduced  by  my  colonel,  L.  B. 
Grigsby.  Grant  was  then  in  the  flush  of  manhood,  and  as  the 
sun  struggled  through  the  towering  tree  tops  of  that  battlefield, 
Monday  morning,  the  General  ordered  an  advance  to  regain  the 
ground  and  victory  lost  the  previous  day. 

As  Grant  sat  on  his  horse  with  hopeful,  compressed  lips,  and 
sphynx-like  countenance,  he  brought  to  my  historic  mind  Alex- 
ander at  the  Indus,  Caesar  at  the  Rubicon,  or  Napoleon  at 
Waterloo.  The  world  since  then  has  been  filled  with  his  fame. 
In  after  years  I  knew  him  well  during  his  political  career. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  social  scenes  I  ever  participated 
in  was  at  the  home  of  General  Harney,  in  St.  Louis,  during  the 
Presidential  campaign  of  1872.  President  Grant  and  family, 
with  General  O.  E.  Babcock,  his  intelligent  private  secretary, 
and  his  valet  Jerry  visited  St.  Louis  during  the  campaign  and 
were  entertained  by  William  H.  Benton,  John  F.  Long,  General 
Harney,  and  others. 

One  evening  a  fifty -plate  feast  was  given  by  General  Harney 
in  honor  of  the  President.  I  was  present  on  the  occasion,  and 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  banquet,  about  1 1  o'clock,  when  the 
guests  had  retired  to  their  homes,  I  was  asked  by  Babcock  to 
walk  in  the  smoking  room  and  wait  awhile. 

Soon  after,  General  Grant,  with  General  Harney,  Judge  Treat, 
Governor  Reynolds,  George  Fishback,  Fred  Grant,  and  Bab- 
cock put  in  an  appearance  and  took  seats.  The  cigars  were 
passed  around,  most  of  the  guests  partaking  of  the  fragrant 
Havanas.  The  dinner  had  been  greatly  enjoyed  and  satisfac- 
tion seemed  to  sit  on  each  countenance.  A  flood  of  old  war 
memories  began  to  run  from  "  Long  Knife,"  as  Harney  was 
called  by  the  Indians.  He  was  the  hero  of  five  wars — Florida, 
Creek,  Black  Hawk,  Mexican,  and  Civil.  He  described  many 
of  the  desperate  scenes  encountered,  and  thrilled  us  with  patri- 
otism and  admiration,  and  wound  up  with  the  request  that 


GRANT.  49 

General  Grant  would  tell  us  something  about  himself  at  Vicks- 
burg,  Donelson,  Shiloh,  the  Wilderness,  and  Appomattox. 

It  was  then  nearly  1 2  o'clock.  Grant  swung  back  in  his  easy 
chair,  crossed  his  legs,  puffed  his  cigar  and,  through  circles  of 
smoke  that  hung  about  his  brow,  discoursed  about  his  military 
career  for  nearly  two  hours.  He  spoke  of  the  trials  and  scenes 
of  early  life,  his  resignation  from  the  Army,  the  personal  hard- 
ships he  encountered  after  marriage,  his  search  about  St.  Louis 
for  employment,  his  daily  disappointments,  clerking  in  the  leather 
store  at  Galena  with  his  brother  Orville,  and,  taking  the  talk  all 
in  all,  I  never  heard  a  more  fluent  or  interesting  reminiscence. 
He  spoke  of  his  capture  of  Fort  Donelson  and  the  surrender  of 
Buckner,  stating  that  one  of  the  impelling  motives  for  demand- 
ing an  immediate  and  unconditional  surrender  was  the  fear  that 
General  Halleck  might  do  something  to  change  his  plans  before 
the  victory  in  sight  could  be  scored.  I  could  see  that  his  love 
for  Halleck  was  not  as  close  knit  as  that  between  Damon  and 
Pythias. 

Speaking  of  Sherman's  protest  against  his  plans  for  the 
assault  on  Vicksburg,  he  laughingly  remarked  that  "  Tecump  " 
did  not  know  all  the  details ;  and  after  the  place  was  captured, 
he  called  Sherman  to  his  tent,  handed  him  the  written  protest 
that  he  forgot  (?)  to  forward  to  the  War  Department.  The  two 
friends  had  a  good  laugh  over  the  incident  and  closed  their 
social  chat  with  a  bumper  from  an  old  canteen  to  the  surrender 
of  proud  Pemberton. 

I  never  met  a  man  with  a  higher  sense  of  duty  than  General 
Grant.  His  mind  acted  on  direct  lines  and  no  amount  of  verbal 
sophistry  could  twist  him  from  a  purpose  once  formed.  He 
was  eminently  self-reliant,  and  no  storm  clouds  of  misfortune 
could  shadow  his  mind  or  chill  the  intensity  of  his  determina- 
tion. 

When  others  hesitated,  he  acted.  When  trembling  mortals 
fled,  he  stood  like  a  rock,  and  when  his  bravest  generals  gave 
up  the  fight  he  moved  forward  to  victory. 


50  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

Before  engaging  in  battle  or  campaign  he  calculated  all  the 
strength  of  the  enemy  and  studied  the  details  of  the  movements 
he  proposed  on  the  chess  board  of  war,  acquainting  himself 
particularly  with  the  topography  of  the  contemplated  battlefield, 
and  parceling  out  to  each  of  his  generals  the  work  they  must 
do.  When  he  moved  against  General  Lee  across  the  Rapidan 
and  on  through  the  dark  entanglements  of  the  Wilderness  he 
made  no  calculation  for  retreat,  but  knew  and  believed  in  his 
own  mind  that  victory  would  perch  on  his  banner  as  sure  as  the 
sun  and  stars  shone  in  the  heavens.  He  had  the  living  tools  to 
batter  down  the  walls  of  the  Confederacy,  and  he  used  them 
with  a  direct  and  desperate  persistency  until  the  fabric  of  the 
rebellion  fell  forever  into  the  bloody  waters  of  the  Appomattox. 

A  thousand  years  of  glory 

Shall  immortalize  his  fame 
With  a  tale  in  song  and  story 

To  keep  green  his  hallowed  name: 
How  he  saved  a  lasting  Temple, 

So  complete  in  every  plan, 
For  justice,  truth,  and  mercy 

And  the  liberty  of  man! 


CHAPTER  VII. 


ROSCOE  CONKLING. 

ROSCOE  CONKLING  was  an  imperious  character.  His  nature 
was  commanding  and  the  midgets  of  mankind  that  he  managed 
for  so  many  years  were  only  rounds  in  the  ladder  of  his  lordly 
ambition.  Policy  and  pelf  found  no  place  in  the  calendar  of  his 
philosophy,  while  principle  was  the  guiding  star  of  his  life  and 
truth  the  touchstone  of  his  soul. 

His  manly  mien,  sonorous  voice,  flashing  eye,  graceful  gestic- 
ulation, and  satirical  tongue  cut  like  a  scalping  knife,  beat  back  his 
enemy  in  forensic  debate  like  the  vipers  of  the  Furies,  hissing 
defiance  and  challenge  to  combat. 

Cowards  might  compromise  for  cash  and  power,  but  he  held 
in  supreme  contempt  and  scorn  the  man  who  would  not  fulfil  his 
pledge  and  stand  out  in  the  broad  sunlight  of  public  opinion. 
Vacillation  and  subterfuge  found  no  anchorage  in  the  harbor  of 
his  heart.  Like  Napoleon  at  the  bridge  of  Lodi  he  dismounted 
in  desperate  action,  grasped  the  flag  of  his  party,  and  dashed 
to  the  front  through  the  bullets  of  the  foe,  securing  victory  from 
the  jaws  of  defeat. 

Senator  William  B.  Allison,  of  Iowa,  in  whose  office  I  studied 
law,  introduced  me  to  Mr.  Conkling  in  the  winter  of  1866,  when 
each  occupied  seats  in  the  House  of  Representatives.  From 
that  time  until  death  closed  his  illustrious  career  I  knew  the 
great  leader  of  the  Empire  State. 

Politicians  follow  the  trend  of  public  opinion  and  mould  it  for 
their  own  use.  Conkling  led  it  for  the  glory  of  a  Nation,  sway- 
ing the  multitude  by  his  matchless  eloquence.  They  were  pol- 
itic and  diplomatic.  He  was  sincere,  sarcastic,  and  lofty.  They 
gave  their  word  and  smile  to  the  many  ;  he  gave  his  heart  to 

(SO 


52  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

the  few.  While  the  former  had  cheering,  impulsive  followers, 
he  had  admiring  worshipers.  Others  came  down  from  their 
place  of  power  to  mingle  with  the  rushing  crowd,  laughing  with 
and  throwing  arms  around  controlling  constituents.  Conkling 
stood  upon  an  exalted  pedestal  like  the  oracle  at  Memnon,  gaz- 
ing proudly  at  the  passing  throng,  expecting  genuflections  and 
worship,  at  long  range,  from  the  multitude  of  mediocrity  that 
listened  to  and  absorbed  the  decrees  that  fell  from  his  trenchant 
tongue.  He  possessed  the  bravery  of  Coriolanus,  the  beauty  of 
Alcibiades,  and  the  wisdom  of  Pericles.  He  had  the  lashing 
sarcasm  of  Danton,  the  sardonic  sneer  of  Swift,  and  the  senten- 
tious sentences  of  Mirabeau,  rising  above  the  petty  politicians 
of  the  hour  and  soaring  into  the  realm  of  statesmanship  like  an 
Alpine  eagle  above  the  vulture  of  the  valley  ! 

Roscoe  Conkling  was  born  at  Albany,  N.  Y.,  on  the  29th  of 
October,  1829.  His  progrenitors  were  from  Nottinghamshire, 
England.  The  father  of  Roscoe  was  born  at  Amaganset,  N.  Y., 
graduated  at  Union  College,  became  district  attorney,  member 
of  Congress  and  for  twenty-seven  years  sat  on  the  United  States 
district  bench  for  New  York. 

The  mother  of  Roscoe  was  related  to  the  late  Chief  Justice 
Cockburn,  of  Great  Britain ;  was  a  noted  heiress,  beauty,  and  in 
youth  was  called  "  the  belle  of  the  Mohawk  vale,"  the  original 
of  the  celebrated  sentimental  song.  Thus  may  be  seen  that 
Roscoe  Conkling  inherited  wisdom  and  beauty. 

When  Conkling  was  nine  years  of  age  his  parents  removed 
to  Auburn,  the  home  of  the  celebrated  statesman,  William  H. 
Seward,  who  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Judge  Conkling.  For 
three  years  Roscoe  went  to  the  town  school  and  was  noted  for 
his  stalwart  body  and  mind,  a  lusty,  rollicking,  proud  boy,  who 
kicked  over  many  senile  rules,  yet  invariably  knew  his  lessons, 
being  endowed  with  a  marvelous  memory. 

In  1842  he  was  placed  in  the  classic  academy  of  Prof.  Clarke, 
of  New  York  City,  and  for  nearly  four  years  pursued  his  varied 
studies,  paying  particular  attention  to  history,  poetry,  and  ora- 


CONKLING.  53 

tory.  In  1846,  when  only  seventeen  years  of  age,  the  family 
removed  to  Utica,  where  Roscoe  was  entered  as  a  student  in  the 
office  of  Spencer  and  Kernan,  one  of  the  most  prominent  law 
firms  in  the  Empire  State.  He  received  his  license  to  practice 
before  he  was  of  age,  and  was  appointed  district  attorney  of 
Oneida  County  by  Governor  Hamilton  Fish.  A  few  years  later 
he  was  elected  mayor  of  Utica  over  a  noted  Democrat,  making 
a  brilliant  canvass.  He  was  employed  in  prominent  criminal 
and  civil  cases,  and  often  triumphed  over  his  legal  tutors.  In 
November,  1859,  he  was  nominated  and  elected  to  Congress  as 
a  Republican,  and  took  his  seat  on  the  5th  of  December. 

Thad.  Stevens,  Morrill,  Burlingame,  Grow,  Winter  Davis, 
Sherman,  and  Corwin  were  his  legislative  partisans,  while  Pen- 
dleton,  Vallandingham,  Cox,  Holman,  Barksdale,  of  Mississippi ; 
Pugh,  of  Alabama,  and  Reagan,  of  Texas,  were  his  oppo- 
nents ;  yet  not  one  of  this  list,  considering  his  years  of  twenty- 
nine,  could  lay  claim  to  being  his  superior  in  courage  or  mag- 
netic eloquence.  Conkling  was  re-elected  to  Congress  by  a 
majority  of  3,563- 

On  the  last  day  of  February,  1861,  the  House  of  Represent- 
atives passed  an  amendment  to  the  Constitution  guaranteeing 
perpetuity  to  slavery,  and  many  Republicans  through  fear  or  to 
placate  the  slave  oligarchy  voted  to  chain  freedom  to  the  chariot 
wheels  of  slavery.  A  Spartan  band,  however,  voted  an  emphatic 
"  No ! "  and  among  them  we  find  Thaddeus  Stevens,  Tom  Cor- 
win, Owen  Lovejoy,  and  Roscoe  Conkling. 

The  Morrill  tariff  act  was  passed  two  days  afterward,  provid- 
ing for  war  taxes  and  loans  and  particularly  declaring  that  the 
Republic  is  a  Nation,  not  a  league,  and  that  it  is  supreme  within 
its  own  constitutional  sphere. 

On  the  1 2th  of  April  Fort  Sumter  was  fired  upon,  and  the 
echo  of  the  shot  was  heard  around  the  world,  sounding  the 
death  knell  of  slavery  and  State  rights,  although  at  the  expense 
of  two  millions  of  men. 

In  one  of  Conkling's  early  war  speeches  he  uttered  the  fol- 


54  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

lowing  patriotic  sentiment :  "  For  one  I  am  for  the  Union  and 
the  Government  unconditionally.  Come  what  may  I  would 
rather  see  the  rebel  cities  smoke ;  I  would  rather  see  New 
Orleans  the  bed  of  a  lake  where  fishes  would  swim ;  I  would 
rather  see  the  seats  of  treason  unpeopled  from  the  Potomac  to 
the  Gulf  than  that  one  star  should  be  blotted  from  the  flag  of 
our  fathers  or  one  stripe  torn  from  its  azure  folds !  " 

The  Ninety-seventh  Regiment,  New  York  Infantry  Volun- 
teers, or  the  "  Conkling  Rifles,"  commanded  by  Col.  Charles 
Wheelock,  was  among  the  first  to  respond  to  the  call  of  the 
Government  for  troops  to  put  down  the  rebellion.  Mr.  Conk- 
ling  took  a  great  interest  in  this  regiment,  as  it  was  raised  from 
the  stout  yeomanry  of  Oneida  county.  On  its  departure  toi 
the  front  he  presented  the  regiment  with  a  stand  of  colors  that 
had  been  embroidered  and  fashioned  by  his  patriotic  wife,  who 
was  the  intellectual  sister  of  Horatio  Seymour,  the  standard 
bearer  of  Northern  Democracy. 

The  fall  and  winter  of  1862  was  a  terrible  time  for  the  admin- 
istration of  President  Lincoln,  the  Congressional  elections  in 
many  districts  going  Democratic,  through  the  persistent  howl  of 
"  Copperheads,"  "  Doughfaces,"  and  "  Knights  of  the  Golden 
Circle,"  people  who  declared  that  the  war  was  a  failure  and 
demanded  peace  at  any  price.  But  Lincoln  met  the  emergency, 
and  in  the  face  of  political  defeat  issued  his  immortal  proclama- 
tion, the  keystone  to  the  arch  of  liberty,  calling  for  millions  of 
bondsmen  from  the  gloom  of  slavery  to  the  God  given  sunlight 
of  freedom. 

In  this  election  Conkling  was  defeated  by  98  votes  in  a  total 
of  19,788  by  his  old  law  preceptor,  Francis  Kernan;  and 
Horatio  Seymour,  his  brother-in-law,  was  elected  Governor  of 
New  York. 

For  the  ensuing  two  years  Conkling  practiced  law  with 
eminent  success,  defeating  his  most  prominent  opponents  in  the 
criminal  and  civil  courts.  In  the  November  election  of  1864 
he  was  sent  back  to  Congress  with  a  majority  of  1,150  votes. 


CONKLING.  55 

Lincoln,  too,  was  triumphantly  elected  over  McClellan  and  his 
mongrel  supporters. 

In  May?  1865,  Mr.  Conkling  was  employed  by  Secretary 
Stanton  to  assist  the  Judge  Advocate  General  of  the  Army  in 
prosecuting  Assistant  Provost  Marshal  General  Haddock  of  the 
western  district  of  New  York,  at  Elmira,  charged  with  a  gigantic 
conspiracy  to  defraud  the  Government  out  of  bounties  given  to 
substitutes  in  the  Army.  More  than  a  half  million  of  dollars 
was  divided  by  corrupt  lawyers,  township  agents,  county  judges, 
and  bounty  jumpers. 

Mr.  Conkling  entered  the  trial  as  special  counsel,  and  con- 
vinced many  people  that  officers  high  in  authority  in  the  pro- 
vost marshal's  office  at  Washington,  as  well  as  prominent  poli- 
ticians, were  linked  with  Haddock  and  his  conspirators.  Judge 
Smith,  of  Oneida  County,  became  counsel  for  his  friend  Had- 
dock, but  when  he  volunteered  to  take  the  stand  as  a  witness 
in  behalf  of  his  client  the  judge  literally  and  abjectly  broke 
down.  Conkling  proved  from  Smith's  receipts  and  orders  that 
he  accepted  bribes  while  holding  the  office  of  county  judge. 
The  closing  speech  of  Conkling  cut  to  the  bone  and  drew  blood 
with  every  sentence. 

The  court  marshal  rendered  a  verdict  that  Major  Haddock 
be  cashiered,  pay  a  fine  of  $10,000,  and  be  imprisoned  for  five 
years.  This  sentence  was  carried  out  by  order  of  Secretary 
Edwin  M.  Stanton,  the  unrelenting  Carnot  of  the  late  war,  whom 
praise  could  not  inflate  or  censure  depress,  a  man  who  soared 
over  difficulties  like  an  eagle  swooping  over  mountain  crags. 

In  November,  1866,  Conkling  was  re-elected  to  Congress  by 
an  increased  majority,  and  for  the  succeeding  two  years  took 
active  part  in  the  enactment  of  reconstruction  laws,  made  neces- 
sary by  the  status  of  the  Southern  States  at  the  close  of  the 
rebellion.  He  took  a  very  active  part  in  the  proceedings  for 
the  impeachment  of  Andrew  Johnson,  and  was  a  staunch  lieu- 
tenant to  Mr.  Thaddeus  Stevens,  the  great  radical  leader  from 
Pennsylvania. 


56  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  war  Johnson,  like  Parson  Brownlow, 
was  compelled  to  leave  Tennessee  and  become  fugitives,  be- 
cause of  their  loyalty  to  the  Union.  Johnson  then  said,  and  I 
heard  his  speech  in  . Kentucky,  that  "treason  must  be  made 
odious  and  traitors  punished,"  but  in  the  whirligig  of  time  he 
consorted  with  those  he  reviled  and  rebuked  the  Union  people 
who  made  it  possible  for  him  to  become  President  by  the  un- 
fortunate assassination  of  the  immortal  Lincoln.  Parson  Brown - 
low  kept  his  faith  to  the  last,  defying  the  censure  of  neighbors, 
the  isolation  of  exile  and  the  torture  of  imprisonment ;  a  man 
of  heroic  and  indomitable  principle,  that  no  earthly  influence 
could  subdue  or  twist  from  the  moorings  of  his  God  given  faith ! 

The  impress  of  Conkling's  radical  mind  can  be  found  in  the 
thirteenth,  fourteenth,  and  fifteenth  amendments  to  the  Consti- 
tution and  the  laws  enacted  for  their  supremacy.  He  served 
on  the  most  important  committees  of  the  House  and  Senate. 
The  slave  and  freedman  found  in  him  an  uncompromising 
champion,  and  his  hand  was  always  extended  to  prostrate 
humanity. 

Ingersoll  in  his  Albany  eulogy  of  Conkling  expresses  the 
ideal  of  the  statesman.  "  We  rise  by  raising  others  and  he  who 
stoops  above  the  fallen  stands  erect ! " 

Lincoln,  Grant,  Chase,  Stevens,  Corwin,  and  Stanton  had  the 
highest  respect  for  the  New  York  statesman,  and  put  him  for- 
ward in  the  most  desperate  emergencies,  knowing  that  he  was 
equal  to  any  ordeal  of  brain  or  body.  Like  a  gladiator  in  the 
Roman  arena  he  stood  erect,  bared  his  arm  and  breast  to  man 
or  beast,  and  with  javelin  or  battle  axe  conquered  his  foe  and 
commanded  the  shouts  of  the  multitude. 

Conkling  took  his  seat  in  the  Senate  March  4,  1867,  and 
resigned  the  same  on  the  i4th  of  May,  1881,  after  fourteen 
years  of  illustrious  service.  His  speeches  on  the  hustings,  in 
the  Senate,  and  at  conventions  of  his  party,  are  masterpieces  of 
convincing  logic.  When  Conkling  was  announced  for  a  set 
speech  in  the  Senate  every  seat  was  filled  and  the  steps  in  the 


CONKLING.  57 

aisles  were  crowded.  He  dressed  in  clean  cut  style,  and  his 
commanding  presence,  with  Hyperion  locks,  bore  the  stamp  of 
an  Apollo,  and  hurled  at  his  opponent  the  lofty  and  sarcastic 
logic  of  Cicero  or  Grattan.  He  was  the  peer  of  Thurman, 
Sumner,  Lamar,  Morton,  Gordon  and  Hill,  and  often  crossed 
intellectual  swords  to  the  utter  discomfiture  of  these  noted  men. 
I  heard  him  in  the  "  French  Arms  "  debate  and  "  San  Domingo" 
question,  and  such  a  lashing  inflicted  on  the  tender  backs  of 
Sumner  and  Schurz  I  never  witnessed  before.  Although  these 
Senators  were  famous  masters  of  language  and  logic,  they  utterly 
wilted  and  shivered  under  the  political  castigation  inflicted  by 
the  administration  Senator  from  New  York.  General  Grant 
had  in  Conkling  a  lofty  and  dignified  champion  worthy  the 
hero  of  Appomattox,  and  his  speech  in  nominating  Grant  for  a 
third  term  at  Chicago  will  long  be  remembered  by  the  306  that 
followed  in  his  lead  as  well  as  those  who  were  fortunate  enough 
to  hear  the  great  orator  from  the  Empire  State. 

The  Electoral  Commission  was  evolved  and  consummated  by 
the  brain  and  energy  of  Roscoe  Conkling,  and  I  doubt  very 
much  if  Rutherford  B.  Hayes  would  ever  have  been  President 
had  not  the  fine  "  Italian"  hand  of  the  New  York  statesman 
taken  part  in  the  compromise  that  continued  Mr.  Tilden  in  the 
shades  of  private  life.  It  was  the  first  time  in  our  Republic  that 
the  constitutional  machinery  for  the  inauguration  of  a  President 
was  suspended  by  a  political  enactment.  Let  us  hope  it  may 
be  the  last. 

Roscoe  Conkling  refused  the  position  of  Chief  Justice  of  the 
United  States,  tendered  by  his  faithful  and  enduring  friend 
President  Grant,  preferring  to  legislate  for  a  Nation  rather  than 
sit  for  life  on  velvet  cushions,  the  ninth  part  of  a  judicial  con- 
clave. Patrick  Henry,  of  Virginia,  refused  the  same  office  from 
the  hands  of  President  Washington ;  and  these  two  illustrious 
orators  were  the  only  Americans  that  cast  aside  one  of  the 
highest  offices  on  earth.  However,  they  were  greater  than  the 
office,  and  showed  it  by  their  declination  ! 


58  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

President  Garfield  would  not  have  carried  the  State  of  New 
York  in  1880  had  not  General  Grant  and  Roscoe  Conkling  taken 
the  political  field  in  his  behalf,  and  the  loss  of  New  York  would 
have  been  the  loss  of  the  Nation.  Conkling,  at  the  written  in- 
vitation of  Garfield,  visited  him  at  Mentor  during  the  Presi- 
dential campaign  and  received  the  most  exact  and  seemingly 
sincere  thanks  for  his  support.  In  meeting  the  New  York 
Senator,  in  the  presence  of  General  Grant,  Garfield  rushed  out 
bareheaded  from  his  home  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Conkling,  you  have  saved  me !  Whatever  man  can  do, 
that  will  I  do  for  you  !  "  And  he  did  it,  by  turning  General 
Merritt  out  of  the  New  York  custom-house  and  putting  in  Gen- 
eral Robertson,  the  enemy  of  Mr.  Conkling.  Punica  fides! 

It  matters  little  now  as  to  who  was  right  or  who  was  wrong 
in  the  internal  war  between  contending  Republican  factions. 
The  " Stalwart "  and  the  "Half-breed"  have  long  since  slept 
beneath  the  sod,  and  over  their  illustrious  ashes  let  us  exclaim 
with  the  ancients,  nil  de  mortius  nisi  bonum. 

The  following  personal  reminiscences  clustering  around  Mr. 
Conkling  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  the  reader,  being  related 
for  the  first  *ime : 

The  Presidential  campaign  of  Grant  in  1872  was  a  memor- 
able one.  Greeley  had  been  nominated  by  the  Democratic 
party  and  a  few  so-called  Liberals  who  had  been  disappointed 
in  securing  office.  The  mock  marriage  of  these  incongruous 
elements  begot  the  contempt  and  scorn  of  the  Nation  and  suf- 
fered an  ignominious  defeat. 

During  this  campaign — I  think  the  first  week  in  August — I 
had  an  occasion  to  test  the  imperial  bluff  of  Conkling  and  the 
firm  friendship  of  Grant.  At  this  time  I  was  connected  with 
the  Internal  Revenue  Department  of  the  Government,  with 
headquarters  at  St.  Louis. 

The  supervising  officers  of  the  internal  revenue  had  been  cut 
down  by  law  from  twenty-five  to  ten,  commencing  July  i,  1872. 
There  was  a  great  political  and  personal  scramble  as  to  who 


CONKLING.  59 

should  be  retained.  The  supervisor  for  the  district  of  Missouri, 
comprising  five  Western  States,  to  the  astonishment  of  his 
political  friends,  was  superseded  by  a  man  from  North  Carolina. 
I  was  at  the  time  up  to  my  neck  in  politics  and  desired  that  the 
official  status  in  Missouri  should  be  continued,  at  least  until  after 
the  election  in  November.  To  this  end  I  secured  urgent  letters 
to  General  Grant  from  ex-Senator  John  B.  Henderson,  Henry 
T.  Blow,  and  Chester  H.  Krum,  the  United  States  district 
attorney.  I  started  immediately  for  Washington  to  see  the 
President,  but  when  I  arrived  I  found  that  he  had  a  few  days 
before  gone  with  a  select  party  to  the  Thousand  Islands  and 
would  stop  for  a  few  days  at  Utica  to  visit  Mr.  Conkling. 

Before  leaving  Washington  I  called  on  General  Babcock,  the 
President's  secretary,  at  the  White  House,  on  Internal  Revenue 
Commissioner  Douglass,  and  Mr.  Boutwell,  the  Secretary  of  the 
Treasury,  to  see  if  the  supervisor  for  the  Missouri  district  could 
not  be  reinstated;  but  received  no  encouragement.  In  fact,  the 
Secretary  told  me  that  the  displacement  of  the  supervisor  was 
irrevocable.  That  August  evening  I  took  the  fast  train  for  New 
York  and  Utica,  arriving  at  the  latter  place  the  same  day  Presi- 
dent Grant  visited  Mr.  Conkling.  About  9  o'clock  the  next 
morning  I  strolled  from  Baggs'  Hotel  up  Gennessee  street  to 
the  mansion  of  the  Senator.  I  was  ushered  into  the  parlor  by 
a  servant,  sent  my  card  to  President  Grant,  and  after  waiting 
about  ten  minutes  General  Horace  Porter,  the  President's  pri- 
vate secretary,  put  in  an  appearance,  greeted  me  cordially,  took 
a  seat  and  said  that  the  President  and  family  had  not  come  down 
to  breakfast,  but  if  I  had  any  communication  to  make  he  would 
convey  it,  saying  at  the  same  time  that  immediately  after  break- 
fast the  President  and  party,  with  Mr.  Conkling,  Governor  Sey- 
mour, and  friends  were  to  take  a  coaching  trip  to  Trenton  Falls, 
and  in  the  evening  there  was  to  be  a  grand  reception  at  Senator 
Conkling's  home  for  the  people  of  Utica.  He  also  said  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  see  the  President  on  any  official  business. 
I  intimated  to  General  Porter  that  I  wished  to  see  the  President 


60  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

relative  to  the  recent  change  in  the  supervisor's  office.  I  could 
see  from  his  countenance  that  he  knew  all  about  the  matter  and 
was  doing  the  diplomatic  to  keep  me  from  communicating  in 
person  with  General  Grant.  However,  I  never  yet  consented 
to  take  a  bluff  from  doorkeepers,  ante-room  agents,  or  private 
secretaries  of  men  in  public  power,  always  making  it  a  point  to 
see  and  consult  with  the  head,  instead  of  hanging  around  the 
heels  of  lordly  subordinates,  who  imagine  that  they  carry  the 
heart  and  conscience  of  their  superiors  in  the  hollow  ol  their 
head  and  hand ! 

Bowing  myself  out  of  Mn  Conkling's  parlor,  I  went  back  to 
Baggs'  Hotel,  determined  to  wait  until  the  Presidential  party 
returned  that  evening,  and  make  another  trial  to  see  General 
Grant  and  present  the  three  letters  I  had  from  his  intimate 
friends  in  St.  Louis. 

With  converging  streams  of  people,  at  twilight,  I  took  my 
way  to  the  spacious  grounds  and  mansion  of  Mr.  Conkling, 
grandly  illuminated  by  Chinese  lanterns  and  decorated  with 
flags  and  bunting  in  honor  of  the  Chief  Magistrate  of  the  Nation. 
I  arrived  at  the  front  steps  just  as  the  two  coaches  of  the  Presi- 
dential party  drew  up  to  deliver  the  guests,  about  a  dozen 
people.  A  squad  of  police  were  present  to  keep  the  crowd 
from  pressing  on  the  noted  visitors.  The  whole  party  passed 
up  the  steps,  with  Mr.  Conkling  bringing  up  the  rear.  I  followed 
immediately  after,  the  officer  on  guard,  no  doubt,  thinking  I  was 
one  of  the  guests.  The  ladies  went  into  the  broad  hall,  turned 
to  the  left  to  lay  off  their  wraps,  and  the  gentlemen  filed  to  the 
right  with  General  Grant  in  the  lead. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  cross  the  threshold  Senator  Conkling 
turned  about,  and  drawing  himself  up  with  an  air  that  would 
have  done  Chesterfield  and  Cardinal  Richelieu  great  credit,  ex- 
claimed :  "Ah,  Colonel,  how  are  you  ?  "  "  Very  well,  Senator," 
I  replied.  "  Colonel,  the  President  is  to  receive  the  people  of 
Utica  in  an  hour  or  so.  I  trust  he  may  not  be  bothered  with 


CONKLING.  6 1 

any  official  matters,  as  he  is  on  a  summer  jaunt  for  health  and 
pleasure." 

"  Senator,  I  have  come  more  than  a  thousand  miles  to  see 
the  President,  and  have  three  important  letters  from  his  intimate 
friends  in  St.  Louis  to  deliver  to  him  in  person.  I  trust  you 
may  permit  me,  at  least,  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  President  of 
the  United  States  while  receiving  the  hospitality  of  yourself  and 
friends,  and  I  shall  not  refer  to  any  official  business  unless  the 
General  first  speaks  of  it  himself." 

"Ah,  well,  walk  in,  sir!"  I  passed  into  the  double  parlor, 
when  Mr.  Conkling  disappeared,  and  soon  after  the  President 
came  forward,  shook  hands,  bade  me  "  good  evening,"  and  at 
once  said :  "  Colonel,  regarding  that  supervisor  matter,  I  tried 
to  retain  your  friend,  but  the  pressure  was  so  great  that  the 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury  had  to  put  Cobb  or  Emory  in  his 
place." 

"  General,  I  promised  Senator  Conkling  that  I  would  not  men- 
tion any  official  matter  to  you  unless  you  spoke  of  it  first.  Now, 
here  are  three  letters  from  your  personal  friends  in  St.  Louis 
that  I  wish  you  would  read,  after  which  I'll  be  satisfied  at  your 
conclusion."  He  walked  into  the  library,  sat  down  at  a  desk, 
and  read  the  letters.  That  of  District  Attorney  Krum  he  read 
carefully,  turned  it  over,  and  on  the  back  of  the  same  in  his 
own  handwriting  ordered  Secretary  Boutwell  to  reinstate  my 
political  and  official  friend.  The  letter  and  indorsement  are  in 
existence  today,  a  convincing  proof  to  all  that  one  should  never 
be  turned  aside  by  subordinate  difficulties,  but  press  on  to  the 
fountain-head  until  absolute  defeat  or  victory  prevails. 

I  bade  the  General  goodbye,  shook  hands,  and  took  my  de- 
parture for  Washington,  saw  the  Secretary,  and  carried  back  to 
the  West  the  commission  of  the  supervisor. 

An  incident  showing  the  testy  integrity  of  Senator  Conkling 
came  under  my  personal  notice  in  the  winter  of  1 874.  Dropping 
into  Willard's  one  evening  to  view  the  passing  throng,  I  encoun- 
tered Judge  G.,  of  Kentucky,  who  had  a  pending  war  claim  of 


62  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

$100,000  that  had  been  shuttlecocked  about  for  several  years. 
It  had  passed  the  House  of  Representatives  and  was  hanging 
fire  on  the  Senate  Calendar.  Judge  G.,  who  had  been  my  boy- 
hood friend  before  the  war,  in  Kentucky,  asked  me  to  introduce 
him  to  the  New  York  Senator,  saying  that  if  he  would  make  a 
short  speech  when  the  claim  was  called  up,  payment  of  his  just 
debt  for  material  furnished  the  Government  would  be  speedily 
secured. 

I  consented  reluctantly  to  introduce  him  to  Mr.  Conkling, 
knowing  his  abhorrence  against  the  promiscuous  war  claims 
that  were  constantly  coming  up  from  the  South.  I  told  the  old 
Judge  on  our  way  to  the  Senator's  rooms  that  the  New  York 
statesman  was  a  very  proud  and  peculiar  man,  with  the  highest 
sense  of  personal  honor,  and  that  he  must  be  handled  very  gin- 
gerly and  convinced  that  the  claim  was  thoroughly  honest,  else 
our  mission  would  be  a  failure.  Arriving  at  our  destination,  we 
were  ushered  into  a  parlor  with  bed-room  in  the  rear,  and  I 
expressed  the  desire  to  see  the  Senator,  giving  my  name  and 
that  of  the  Judge  to  the  servant.  The  Senator  soon  appeared. 
I  introduced  Judge  G.,  and  all  took  seats,  Mr.  Conkling  at  his 
writing  desk.  The  usual  compliments  of  the  evening  were 
passed,  and  after  a  brief  pause  Judge  G.,  a  fine  old  confidential 
Kentuckian  of  the  Bardwell  Slote  type,  related  his  trials  and 
tribulations,  expense,  and  worry  in  trying  to  have  the  Govern- 
ment pay  for  horses,  mules,  cattle,  forage,  and  wood  that  had 
been  taken  from  him  during  the  war,  saying  that  the  claim  was 
then  on  the  Senate  Calendar,  and  if  the  Senator  would  speak 
but  a  few  words  in  its  favor  he  felt  success  would  be  certain, 
rounding  up  his  remarks  with  the  offer  that  if  the  Senator  would 
<io  this  he  would  pay  him  as  a  lawyer  a  fee  of  $10,000  !  If  you 
had  hit  Conkling  with  a  brick-bat  between  the  eyes  I  don't  think 
it  would  have  flushed  his  face  or  stunned  his  body  more  than 
the  last  words  of  the  Judge. 

"  Sir,"  said  Conkling,  standing  to  his  full  height,  "  an  honest 
•claim  that  needs  a  ten-thousand-dollar  lawyer  to  secure  its 


CONKLING.  63 

passage  through  Congress  must  be  a  very  bad  one !  I  am  busy 
now!  You  will  excuse  me  !  Good  evening!  " 

The  old  Judge  arose,  staggered  from  the  room  pale  as  a  Peer- 
less potato,  and  I  felt  as  if  a  section  of  a  brick  house  had  fallen 
on  my  devoted  head.  We  soon  found  ourselves  on  the  pave- 
ment, and  after  walking  a  block  in  silence  I  broke  the  strain  by 
saying,  "  Judge,  you  have  ruined  your  case.  You  might  as 
well  pack  up  your  grip  and  wander  back  to  your  blue  grass 
farm  in  Bourbon.  While  Conkling  is  in  Congress  you  will  never 
get  that  claim  through."  "  Well,  John,  I  always  had  a  kind  of 
notion  that  I  was  a  d — n  fool,  but  now  I  know  it.  Let  us  go 
and  get  a  drink  of  Old  Bourbon,  and  I  will  then  take  the  first 
train  for  '  Old  Kaintuck '  and  see  the  old  woman  and  the  girls 
once  more  before  I  die  !  " 

A  few  days  after  this  episode  I  was  in  the  Marble  Room  of  the 
Senate  waiting  for  one  of  the  Solons,  when  who  should  appear 
with  his  lordly  stride  but  Conkling.  We  shook  hands.  He 
said  :  "Ah,  Colonel,  what  is  that  gentleman's  name  that  you 
introduced  to  me  the  other  night  ?  "  I  repeated  his  name,  the 
Senator  wrote  it  down  on  a  card,  made  a  dignified  bow,  and 
passed  on  to  an  alcove  by  the  window,  where  a  stately  lady,  the 
daughter  of  a  former  governor  awaited  his  presence. 

That  $100,000  claim  is  still  pending  in  Congress,  and  the 
poverty-stricken  heirs  are  yet  trying  to  get  paid  for  material  fur- 
nished the  Government  by  their  broken-hearted  father,  who 
ruined  an  honest  case  by  slopping  over  with  his  tongue ! 

It  is  not  generally  known  that  Roscoe  Conkling  was  a  poet, 
perhaps  not  in  the  rhythmic  sense,  but  in  that  lofty  soaring  of 
the  soul  above  the  sordid  creatures  of  the  vulgar  valley,  who 
wriggle  out  their  little  day  and  then  sink  beneath  the  clods  they 
cultivate.  He  was  no  stickler  for  creeds,  but  measured  mankind 
for  their  energy,  loyalty,  and  truth.  Life  and  death  he  viewed 
with  philosophic  composure  and  felt  in  his  imperial  nature  the 
promptings  of  an  eternal  Omnipotence.  From  boyhood  he 
memorized  the  rarest  gems  of  prose  and  poetic  literature,  and 


64  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

in  many  of  his  forensic  triumphs  we  may  trace  the  pathetic  or 
patriotic  ideals  of  illustrious  orators  and  poets.  His  mind  was 
imbued  with  what  it  fed  upon,  and  the  intensity  of  his  thought 
and  manner  inspired  the  listener  with  spontaneous  rapture. 

In  the  spring  of  1880  I  called  at  the  rooms  of  Mr.  Conkling 
with  Dr.  Elwood  E.  Thorne,  Past  Grand  Master  of  Masons  of 
New  York,  who  wished  to  talk  with  his  Senator  upon  the  pend- 
ing question  of  a  protective  tariff  for  sugar,  the  Doctor  being 
an  attorney  for  the  sugar  syndicate. 

Just  at  the  hour  when  twilight  merges  into  night  and  stars  and 
planets  peep  from  out  their  mysterious  realm,  we  were  ushered 
into  the  presence  of  the  Senator.  We  sat  near  the  window,  look- 
ing out  on  Fifteenth  street  at  the  hurrying  throng  wending  their 
way  to  home,  love,  or  despair.  The  Senator  coincided  with 
Thorne  on  the  general  principle  of  protection,  but  was  desirous 
that  sugar  should  be  made  as  cheap  as  possible  for  the  benefit 
of  the  poor,  saying  that  the  necessaries  of  life  should  be  cheap- 
ened to  the  lowest  possible  point,  while  the  luxuries,  such  as 
wines,  liquors,  malts,  tobaccos,  silks,  satins,  velvets,  and  jewels 
should  bear  the  highest  taxes  and  be  paid  by  those  who  indulge 
their  taste  in  these  commodities. 

At  this  moment  in  the  Senator's  argument  flashes  of  light- 
ning and  rumbling  thunder,  accompanied  by  whistling  wind  and 
rattling  rain,  shook  the  building  and  caused  Thorne  and  myself 
to  pitch  back  from  the  window  at  the  sudden  outburst  of  the 
storm.  Conkling  kept  his  position  like  a  rock,  gazing  at  the 
scene  with  looks  of  admiration,  like  another  Ajax  on  the  heights 
of  Olympus  defying  the  lightning.  Before  we  had  time  to  make 
any  remark  on  the  sudden  outburst  of  nature,  he  deliberately 
arose,  struck  a  theatrical  attitude,  waved  his  right  hand,  and 
exclaimed  in  sonorous  tones  : 

"  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 

His  wonders  to  perform, 
He  plants  His  footsteps  in  the  sea 
And  rides  upon  the  storm  !  " 


CONKLING.  65 

And  then,  to  exemplify  the  littleness  of  life  and  the  evanes- 
cent joys  of  mortal  midgets,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Life  is  a  dew  drop,  pendant  on  a  flower; 
A  sunbeam,  glinting  o'er  a  string  of  pearls; 
A  vision  of  the  future  dimly  seen; 
A  little  snowflake  on  a  turbid  stream; 
A  maddening  rush  o'er  a  dread  cataract, 
An  atom  borne  on  the  breeze  of  time, 
Pinioned  with  hope  for  immortality  !  " 

Thorne  and  myself  clapped  our  hands  with  impulsive  enthu- 
siasm, forgetting  the  storm  without  while  under  the  magic  spell 
^and  poetic  flights  of  the  eloquent  Senator. 

Roscoe  Conkling  was  a  master  of  alliteration,  euphony,  synthe- 
sis, and  repartee.  More  monosyllables  are  found  in  his  orations, 
for  their  length,  than  in  those  of  any  American  orator.  His  verbs 
and  nouns  were  short,  his  adjectives  and  adverbs  caustic,  and 
his  conjunctions  scarce.  He  sent  his  thought  through  the  mind 
of  the  listener  swift  as  an  arrow  from  the  quiver  of  Diana.  Dic- 
tion was  his  delight,  poetry  his  pleasure,  and  right  his  religion. 

Today  the  bronze  statues  of  Roscoe  Conkling  and  his  famous 
friend,  William  H.  Seward,  adorn  the  walks  of  Madison  Square, 
and  so  long  as  streams  of  people  from  domestic  or  foreign  lands 
shall  roll  up  or  down  Broadway  or  the  rocky  foundation  of 
Manhattan  Island  shall  endure,  so  long  shall  the  memory  of 
these  illustrious  Americans  shine  out  with  Liberty  enlightening 
the  world  by  her  beauty  on  the  bounding  bay. 

Their  names  shall  live  when  marble,  bronze,  and  bust 
Have  crumbled  into  cold  and  silent  dust, 
And  Freedom,  with  her  longest,  latest  breath, 
Shall  sing  their  glory  o'er  a  deathless  death  ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


GEN.  F.  E.  SPINNER. 

ELLICOTT,  the  sculptor,  has  finished  the  life-sized  statue  of 
Gen.  F.  E.  Spinner,  late  Treasurer  of  the  United  States.  It  is 
cast  in  bronze  and  soon  it  will  appear  in  front  of  the  Treasury 
Department. 

The  statue  is  heroic,  standing  to  the  observer  six  feet,  with  a 
broad-brimmed  hat,  a  corrugated  brow,  a  crumpled  cloak,  wrin- 
kled pants,  firm  foot  and  boot ;  and  altogether,  the  best  civilian 
statue  in  the  District  of  Columbia. 

It  is  well  and  just  that  the  people  of  the  United  States  should 
remember  the  cashier  of  the  Republic. 

Gen.  Francis  Elias  Spinner,  late  Treasurer  of  the  United 
States,  was  born  in  the  town  of  Mohawk,  Herkimer  County, 
N.  Y.,  January  21, 1802.  His  father,  Peter,  was  born  in  Baden, 
Germany,  January  18,  1768,  emigrated  to  the  United  States  in 
1801,  and  died  May  27,  1848,  while  minister  of  the  Lutheran 
Church  at  Herkimer,  eighty  years  of  age.  Like  Luther,  the 
elder  Spinner  had  been  a  Catholic  priest,  but  became  a  Protest- 
ant. He  married  a  devotee  of  a  nunnery  and  soon  after  came 
to  the  great  Republic,  where  he  continued  his  sacerdotal  voca- 
tion until  his  death. 

The  son,  Francis,  was  noted  in  his  youth  for  pugnacity,  gen- 
erosity, and  blunt  honesty,  characteristics  that  never  forsook 
him.  At  an  early  age  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  confectioner,  and 
afterward  to  a  saddler,  learning  these  trades  to  a  partial  degree, 
but  soon  his  restless  spirit  longed  for  the  excitement  of  political 
life,  when  he  was  appointed  deputy  sheriff  and  afterward  elected 
sheriff  of  his  county. 

He  was  also  major  general  of  the  New  York  State  militia,  and 
(66) 


SPINNER.  67 

became  cashier  and  president  of  a  commercial  bank.  For  four 
years  he  was  deputy  naval  officer  of  the  port  of  New  York,  and 
in  1854  he  was  elected  to  Congress  as  an  anti-slavery  Democrat, 
and  after  the  Republican  party  was  formed  he  represented  that 
organization  in  Congress  until  the  3d  of  March,  1861,  when  he 
was  requested  by  Secretary  Chase  and  President  Lincoln  to 
become  Treasurer  of  the  United  States,  which  position  he  held 
for  fourteen  years. 

During  the  four  years  of  the  rebellion  there  was  not  an  officer 
of  the  civil  service  of  the  Government  that  performed  more  act- 
ive or  important  work  than  General  Spinner.  His  strange  and 
celebrated  signature,  first  written  on  the  printed  sheets  of  green- 
backs, was  universally  commented  upon,  and  to  the  ordinary 
citizen  who  held  the  notes  the  name  of  the  Treasurer  was  a 
puzzle.  He  adopted  this  cramped  and  peculiar  signature,  how- 
ever, as  he  told  me,  for  the  purpose  of  foiling  counterfeiters  and 
making  it  difficult  to  imitate  the  original. 

During  the  rapid  and  accumulating  events  of  the  spring,  sum- 
mer, and  fall  of  1861  and  1862  the  greenback  printing  presses 
of  the  Government  were  run  to  their  utmost  limit  to  provide  the 
sinews  of  war  for  the  Army  and  Navy,  and  Spinner  himself  often 
remained  at  his  desk  more  than  twenty  hours  at  a  stretch  signing 
and  sending  out  the  paper  bullets  that  conquered  the  rebellion. 

The  desire  of  many  Government  clerks  to  enlist  in  the  Army 
and  Navy  and  battle  for  their  country  almost  depleted  some  of 
the  bureaus  of  their  working  force,  and  the  Treasurer's  office 
was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  To  substitute  the  men  General 
Spinner  naturally  thought  of  the  employment  of  women,  know- 
ing that  their  deft  fingers  and  rapid  intuition  could  compete  with, 
if  not  surpass,  men  as  correct  counters  of  new  or  old  money. 

General  Spinner  always  felt  a  natural  and  commendable  pride 
in  first  giving  women  an  opportunity  to  make  their  own  living 
by  Government  employment.  Hundreds  of  mothers,  wives, 
daughters,  and  sisters  employed  today  in  the  various  bureaus 
of  the  Government  may  well  thank  "  the  old  watch-dog  of  the 


68  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

Treasury  "  for  his  persistent  and  faithful  adhesion  to  their  inter- 
est ;  and  each  woman  now  in  office  should  place  a  leaf,  in  the 
shape  of  a  five-dollar  bill,  in  the  laurel  wreath  that  will  soon 
crown  his  bronze  statue  in  front  of  the  Treasury  Department. 

I  was  intimate  with  General  Spinner  and  corresponded  with 
him  up  to  the  time  of  his  death,  at  Jacksonville,  Fla.,  in  Jan- 
uary, 1891.  In  the  summer  of  1886  a  discussion  broke  out  in 
the  newspapers  as  to  who  should  get  the  credit  for  first  recom- 
mending women  as  Government  employees  and  afterward  clerks. 
Some  friends  of  Secretary  Chase  claimed  the  honor  for  him,  but 
the  weight  of  the  witnesses  and  the  actual  records  proved  beyond 
a  doubt  that  Spinner  was  the  real  pioneer  that  blazed  the  way 
for  women  to  work  in  official  capacity. 

At  the  time  General  Spinner  was  summering  at  Pablo  Beach> 
a  seaside  resort  near  Jacksonville,  I  wrote  him  regarding  the 
discussion  and  with  some  acrimony  against  those  who  were  try- 
ing to  filch  from  him  the  glory  of  having  first  recommended  the 
fair  sex  for  Government  labor.  I  have  now  before  me  a  four- 
page  autograph  letter,  dated  August  4,  1886,  at  Pablo  Beach, 
when  he  was  eighty-four  years  of  age ;  and  in  which  occur  these 
phrases  relating  to  his  employment  of  women :  "  The  records  of 
the  Treasury  Department  will  show  that  I  am  right  in  every 
case  and  my  critics  wrong.  All  the  appointments  of  women 
that  are  claimed  to  have  been  made  prior  to  the  9th  of  October, 
1862,  were  made  on  my  nomination  for  places  in  my  then  office, 
United  States  Treasurer.  My  records  and  the  pay-rolls  prove 
this.  And  then  there  are  living  witnesses  in  the  persons  of  some 
of  those  mentioned  still  in  Washington,  one  of  them  Miss  Keller." 
This  lady  is  still  in  office,  as  well  as  Miss  Libbie  Stoner,  one  of 
the  first  women  employed  in  the  Treasury  Department. 

General  Spinner  was  a  remarkable  man  in  personal  appear- 
ance, and  one  who  attracted  attention  whenever  seen.  He  stood 
nearly  six  feet  tall,  a  round,  broad,  high  forehead,  slightly  bald, 
with  a  corrugated  countenance,  thick,  overhanging  brows,  shad- 
ing a  pair  of  deep-set  grayish  blue  eyes  that  looked  keenly  into 


SPINNER.  69 

the  motives  of  men.  His  voice  was  full  and  sonorous,  his  talk 
witty  and  direct,  and  when  he  was  surrounded  by  social  friends 
he  was  the  most  companionable  of  men,  and  was  particularly 
polite  and  caressing  to  the  fair  sex,  who  were  ever  flattered  by 
his  attention. 

He  was  a  prime  favorite  with  Congressmen,  and  when  a  Sen- 
ator or  Representative  during  the  war  and  after  could  not  find 
a  snug  place  for  his  trusted  constituent  in  the  Departments, 
Spinner  could  generally  be  depended  upon  to  furnish  an  asylum 
to  the  friends  of  his  favorite  and  influential  lawmakers.  His 
official  reports,  estimates,  and  requests  were  always  seconded 
by  Chase  and  Lincoln,  and  when  they  came  before  the  Ways 
and  Means  and  Finance  Committees  they  passed  muster  like  a 
crack  regiment  on  dress  parade. 

During  the  impeachment  trial  of  President  Andrew  Johnson, 
in  the  fall  of  1868,  excitement  ran  very  high  in  the  various  De- 
partments of  the  Government  among  the  clerks  and  their 
superior  officers.  The  executive  and  legislative  branches  of  the 
Government  were  arrayed  against  each  other  like  forest  stags 
at  bay,  and  fighting  over  the  Southern  reconstruction  laws  and 
various  Presidential  vetoes  with  a  vengeance  that  I  have  seldom 
seen  in  political  life.  "Johnson  clubs  "  were  formed  in  the  De- 
partments by  subservient  policy  clerks,  who  are  always  found 
to  "  crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee  that  thrift  might 
follow  fawning."  Most  officials  took  sides  for  or  against  im- 
peachment, and  "  spotters "  could  be  found  in  every  office  to 
report  those  who  clung  to  Congress  and  favored  the  official  de- 
capitation of  the  President.  Spinner  was  one  of  the  few  Gov- 
ernment officers  that  did  not  favor  or  cringe  to  the  dictates  of 
"  my  policy,"  and  while  the  impeachment  proceedings  and  ex- 
citement incident  thereto  were  at  the  highest  pitch  he  wrote  a 
personal  letter  to  a  Congressional  friend  severely  condemning 
President  Johnson  and  his  associates,  respectful,  of  course,  but 
firm  as  his  own  sterling  character. 

During  my  official  residence,  in  the  revenue  service,  at  St. 


7O  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

Louis,  from  1870  to  1875,  I  corresponded  with  the  General, 
often  sending  him  some  of  my  newspaper  articles,  soldier  ora- 
tions, and  social  speeches,  and  he  never  failed  to  reply  in  the 
heartiest  manner. 

In  1875  a  contest  arose  between  General  Spinner  and  Secre- 
tary Bristow  over  some  appointments  the  Secretary  of  the  Treas- 
ury wanted  to  make  against  the  will  and  over  the  head  of  the 
Treasuier.  All  former  Secretaries  of  the  Treasury  had  never 
interfered  with  the  appointments  made  in  the  Treasurer's  office, 
as  it  was  regarded  as  a  great  national  bank,  the  Treasurer  giving 
a  personal  bond  for  $100,000  for  the  proper  care  and  account 
of  the  money  of  the  Republic.  It  was  by  common  consent  ad- 
mitted that  as  the  Treasurer  was  responsible  for  the  cash,  he 
should  be  allowed  to  select  his  own  counters  and  cashiers,  but 
Bristow  sought  to  thrust  some  of  his  political  friends  into  Spin- 
ner's office.  The  General  kicked,  and  the  matter  was  brought 
to  the  notice  of  President  Grant  by  Bristow.  Spinner  said  that 
he  would  resign  unless  he  was  allowed  to  select  the  working 
tools  of  his  office,  and  Bristow  insisted  that  he  was  the  appoint- 
ing power  under  the  law  and  would  have  his  own  way  or  vacate 
the  Treasury  Department. 

Grant,  being  schooled  as  a  disciplinarian  and  influenced  by 
some  personal  and  political  friends,  sided  at  the  time  with  the 
Secretary  of  the  Treasury,  and  Spinner  at  once  resigned  the 
office  that  he  had  held  so  long  with  rare  honor  to  himself  and 
great  profit  to  his  country.  In  a  few  months  Grant  was  forced 
to  dismiss  Bristow,  who  brought  upon  his  head  the  scandal  of 
"  the  whisky  ring,"  that  made  such  a  noise  in  its  day. 

The  spring  before  the  General  retired  from  office  he  visited 
his  family  in  Florida  for  a  short  vacation  from  his  arduous  labors 
as  Treasurer,  and  on  his  return  to  the  Capital  he  came  back  by 
the  way  of  New  Orleans,  up  the  Mississippi  River,  by  one  of 
the  palace  steamboats  that  then  plied  between  the  Crescent  City 
and  St.  Louis,  and  stopped  off  a  few  days  to  see  some  of  his 
subordinate  officers  and  view  the  sights  and  growing  greatness 


SPINNER.  71 

of  the  metropolis  that  aspired  to  be  the  future  Capital  of  the 
Republic. 

The  most  prominent  people  of  St.  Louis  called  on  him  at  the 
Planters'  House,  where  I  was  then  boarding  with  my  family,  and 
vied  with  each  other  in  showing  respect  and  attention  to  the 
great  war  Treasurer  of  the  United  States.  One  pleasant,  sunny 
afternoon  I  invited  himself,  his  daughter  and  adopted  daugh- 
ter to  take  a  carriage  drive  and  see  the  sights  of  the  Mound 
City. 

In  the  course  of  the  drive  we  visited  the  celebrated  Shaw's 
garden,  one  of  the  rarest  botanical  gardens  in  the  United  States. 

The  General  and  his  daughter  alighted  at  the  lodge  gate,  and 
we  proceeded  to  the  summer  home  of  Henry  Shaw,  located  at 
one  end  of  the  garden,  amid  rare  trees,  shrubs,  vines,  and  ferns, 
and  beautiful  flowers  growing  in  grace  and  exhaling  perfume  on 
the  wings  of  the  gentle  zephyrs  that  blew  over  this  earthly 
paradise. 

We  sent  in  our  cards,  and  were  ushered  into  the  reception 
room.  Soon  afterward  the  sage  of  the  flowers  appeared  in  a 
silk  skull  cap.  Mr.  Shaw  produced  a  register  of  visitors  and 
asked  the  General  to  give  him  his  celebrated  signature,  saying, 
laughingly,  that  some  future  wanderers  might  have  a  fine  time 
among  his  pet  flowers,  and  working  out  his  signature  as  an  auto- 
graphic puzzle.  The  General  replied:  "Mr.  Shaw,  I  think  it 
has  puzzled  some  of  the  counterfeiters,  and  it  puzzles  a  great 
•  many  other  people  as  to  how  to  secure  enough  of  the  '  green- 
backs '  with  my  cramped  chirography."  We  all  signed  our 
names,  the  General,  I  think,  composing  a  phrase  before  his 
signature.  Mr.  Shaw  then  escorted  us  through  the  grounds, 
explaining,  as  he  went,  the  names,  virtues,  and  peculiarities  of 
his  botanical  beauties,  growing  in  regular  beds  outdoors  or 
blooming  in  pots  in  the  long  green-houses.  I  remember  one 
plant  about  three  feet  high  that  he  took  great  interest  in.  I 
think  he  called  it  a  breathing  or  pulse  plant,  and  that  it  had 
come  from  the  Amazon,  in  South  America.  Its  small  branches 


72  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

and  slender  leaves  moved  up  and  down  with  the  rhythmic  action 
of  heart  beats,  and  it  seemed  to  be  a  living  object.  We  stood 
in  amazement  at  the  sight  of  this  rare  plant,  and  General  Spin- 
ner asked  Mr.  Shaw  if  he  thought  it  had  a  heart  and  soul.  The 
octogenarian  replied :  "  I  am  as  certain  as  I  live  that  the  same 
Supreme  Being  that  called  us  into  life  and  breathed  into  us  His 
celestial  spirit  reigns  in  this  wonderful  plant  and  teaches  us  the 
lesson  of  immortality ! " 

We  passed  on,  and,  going  back  to  the  house  at  his  pressing 
invitation,  we  lingered  at  the  tomb  that  he  had  prepared  to  en- 
case his  mortal  remains  when  life's  fitful  fever  was  over.  "  Gen- 
eral," he  said,  pointing  to  the  marble  sarcophagus,  "  there  is 
where  I  expect  to  rest  when  the  sun  shall  shine  for  me  no  more, 
and  since  I  will  not  be  able  to  attend  to  my  lovely  flowers  with 
hands  of  flesh,  my  spirit  can  watch  over  them  daily  and  nightly, 
and  their  own  beauty  will  induce  those  to  whom  I  have  be- 
queathed them  to  watch  with  jealous  care  for  their  preservation." 
We  were  deeply  impressed  by  the  solemn  language  and  sur- 
rounding scene,  a  man  standing  beside  his  own  tomb  delivering 
his  own  funeral  oration.  When  we  arrived  at  the  house  we  found 
a  light  lunch  prepared,  and  the  old  sage  pressed  us  to  partake, 
producing  some  fine  old  sherry  wine,  clear  as  amber  and  seem- 
ingly as  old  as  himself.  In  a  short  time  we  finished,  and,  as 
General  Spinner  wished  to  take  the  train  that  night  for  Wash- 
ington, hurried  away,  bidding  Mr.  Shaw  and  his  beautiful  garden 
a  fond  farewell,  he  not  forgetting,  however,  to  present  each  of 
the  ladies  with  a  beautiful  bouquet  and  the  General  and  myself 
with  a  single  jacqueminot  to  wear  as  a  boutonniere. 

In  due  course  we  arrived  at  the  Planters'  House.  The  Gen- 
eral and  his  daughters  were  much  pleased  with  their  entertain- 
ment by  Mr.  Shaw,  and  to  the  day  of  their  death,  no  doubt, 
remembered  with  pleasure  the  St.  Louis  botanist. 

The  last  time  I  saw  General  Spinner  was  at  Willard's  Hotel, 
on  his  way  to  Florida,  two  years  before  his  death.  The  rav- 
ages of  a  cancer  had  greatly  disfigured  his  face  and  a  settled 


SPINNER.  73 

gloom  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  his  countenance, 
while  his  natural  irritability  was  increased.  He  saw  but  few 
persons,  and  those  some  of  the  true  and  faithful  clerks  that  had 
honestly  served  him  while  Treasurer.  The  morning  I  called 
was  dark  and  rainy.  He  was  located  on  the  second  floor  on 
the  corner  near  the  F-street  entrance.  When  I  put  in  an 
appearance  at  his  parlor  room  he  rose  with  some*  effort, 
saluted  me  kindly,  and  I  remarked,  "Why,  General,  how 
well  you  look."  He  impulsively  replied,  "  Now,  look  here, 
Joyce,  you  know  that's  a  lie !  "  I  made  some  explanatory  re- 
marks and  turned  the  conversation  into  another  channel,  know- 
ing, of  course,  that  my  first  salutation-was  not  exactly  the  truth, 
but  uttered  as  the  usual  compliment  among  friends.  But  I'll 
never  forget  the  sterling  sincerity  of  Spinner,  who  would  not 
accept  a  passing  social  compliment  when  he  felt  it  to  be  false  I 
The  waters  of  the  romantic  Mohawk  now  murmur  a  requiem 
to  his  memory,  and  the  rolling  hills  and  blooming  vales  that 
blessed  his  boyhood  will  long  echo  the  praises  of  this  illustrious 
man,  who  handled  $3,000,000,000  during  the  civil  war  and  ac- 
counted for  every  cent  to  a  grateful  people,  who  will  always 
cherish  his  memory  while  truth,  loyalty,  and  honesty  reign  in 
the  human  heart ! 

He  stands  in  bronze  without  a  peer  or  clan — 
The  bold,  heroic  figure  of  a  man, 
To  tell  to  generations  yet  unborn 
That  he  was  one  who  held  up  to  all  scorn 
The  man  or  woman  who  would  not  do  right 
And  on  great  Virtue  draw  a  draft  at  sight. 
He'll  stand  for  truth  along  the  columned  years, 
And  bring  to  patriot  eyes  pathetic  tears, 
That  one  so  good  and  great  should  pass  away 
And  mingle  with  the  cold,  unconscious  clay. 
But  what  he  did  in  life  will  shine  and  grow 
Like  waters  from  the  hills  that  flash  and  flow, 
To  gather  greater  volume  as  they  run 
And  scatter  blessings  from  each  sun  to  sun. 
To  woman  in  her  struggle  to  be  free 


74  JEWELS   OF   MEMORY. 

He  gave  his  hand  and  heart  right  royally, 

And  battled  for  her  rights  both  night  .and  day 

To  have  a  chance  to  work  and  get  her  pay. 

No  pelf  or  power  could  sway  him  to  the  wrong, 

He  stood  like  granite  crags,  so  bold  and  strong — 

That  all  the  storms  of  life  could  not  deface 

A  character — the  finest  of  his  race! 

In  legislative  halls  he  stood  ornate, 

With  pivot  points  and  truth  to  close  debate, 

And  flashed  his  sabre  in  the  face  of  greed, 

A  gallant  charger  who  was  born  to  lead! 

As  cashier  of  a  nation,  grand  and  great, 

He  stood  a  splendid  pillar  of  the  State; 

Disbursing  billions  with  an  honest  hand 

To  save  the  glory  of  his  native  land. 

His  name  shall  brighten  as  the  years  prolong 

The  words  of  wisdom  and  the  soul  of  song, 

And  while  a  woman  lives  to  love  and  pray, 

H;s  glory  shall  be  sounded  to  the  latest  day — 

Teaching  the  world  that  equal  rights  for  all 

Shall  triumph  round  this  grand  terrestrial  ball. 

Here  let  him  stand  through  summer  suns  or  frost, 

To  tell  a  Nation  that  no  good  is  lost — 

For  doing  duty  like  the  lordly  man, 

Who  sometimes  thinks  that  in  this  earthly  plan 

The  Great  Creator  only  counts  the  male, 

And  woman  but  a  fancy  thing  to  hail! 

This  statue  that  we  dedicate  today 

Will  stand  when  granite  columns  melt  away, 

And  tell  to  tottering  age  and  blooming  youth 

That  Glory  centers  in  immortal  Truth, 

That  man  reveres  the  honest,  patriot  heart 

Who  struggles  nobly  and  performs  his  part — 

In  all  the  walks  of  life,  through  weal  or  woe, 

A  faithful  friend  and  an  outspoken  foe. 

He  cringed  not  to  the  power  of  wealth  or  state; 

He  only  knew  that  to  be  true  was  to  be  great, 

And  did  his  duty,  firm  and  square  and  kind — 

The  honest  output  of  a  heart  and  mind. 

He  fawned  not  to  the  rabble  howl  or  cheers 

In  all  his  life,  near  ninety  glorious  years, 

But  kept  his  soul  as  pure  and  true  and  bright 


SPINNER.  75 

As  stars  that  glitter  in  an  Arctic  night. 
And  he  who  does  his  duty  shall  be  blessed 
When  angel  voices  call  him  home  to  rest, 
Where  Heavenly  choirs  chant  their  matin  hymns, 
And  golden  goblets  filled  up  to  the  brims, 
With  living  wine,  to  cheer  the  noble  soul 
That  fights  for  right  to  an  eternal  goal. 
Glory  to  Spinner  and  his  loyal  band 
Who  kept  us  still  a  brave,  united  land, 
From  where  the  fair  magnolia  tree  doth  shine 
To  golden  sands  replete  with  fruit  and  wine. 
And  as  the  ages  wing  their  flight  away 
We'll  sound  in  chorus  a  grand  deathless  lay 
For  Liberty  and  Truth  against  the  world: 
Our  glorious  banner  still  to  man  unfurled — 
An  emblem  of  the  brave,  the  pure,  and  free, 
The  rainbow  colors  of  eternity! 


CHAPTER    IX. 


SAMUEL  SULLIVAN  COX. 

SAMUEL  SULLIVAN  Cox,  familiarly  known  as  "  Sunset,"  was 
of  Irish  lineage  and  was  born  in  Zanesville,  Ohio,  on  the  3oth 
of  September,  1824,  and  died  in  the  city  of  New  York  on  the 
loth  of  September,  1889.  His  grandfather,  from  New  Jersey, 
was  a  general  in  the  Revolutionary  War  and  served  under 
Washington  in  many  of  the  battles  that  established  our  Repub- 
lic and  drove  monarchy  from  our  shores. 

Mr.  Cox  graduated  in  the  classics  at  Brown  College,  and  in 
the  spring  of  1853  became  editor  of  the  Ohio  Statesman,  pub- 
lished at  Columbus.  It  was  while  managing  this  journal  that 
he  derived  the  sobriquet  of  "  Sunset,"  which  arose  out  of  an 
eloquent  editorial  description  of  a  sunset  that  flashed  over  Co- 
lumbus on  the  afternoon  of  the  8th  of  May,  1853. 

It  is  well  worth  preserving  in  enduring  form  as  a  brilliant 
specimen  of  word  painting  rarely  surpassed  by  any  writer. 
Here  it  is : 

A   GREAT    OLD   SUNSET. 

"  What  a  stormful  sunset  was  that  of  last  night ! 

"  How  glorious  the  storm  and  how  splendid  the  setting  sun. 
We  do  not  remember  to  have  ever  seen  the  like  on  our  round 
globe.  The  scene  opened  in  the  west  with  the  whole  horizon 
full  of  golden  interpenetrating  luster,  which  colored  the  foliage 
and  brightened  every  object  into  its  own  rich  dyes. 

"  The  colors  grew  deeper  and  richer  until  the  golden  luster  was 
transfused  into  a  storm  cloud  full  of  brightest  lightning,  which 
leaped  in  dazzling  zigzags  all  around  and  over  the  city.  The 
wind  arose  with  fury,  the  slender  shrubs  and  giant  trees  made 
obeisance  to  its  majesty.  Some  even  snapped  before  its  face. 
(76) 


cox.  77 

"  The  strawberry  beds  and  grape  plots  turned  up  their  blooms 
to  see  Zepyhrus  march  by.  As  the  rains  came  and  the  pools 
formed,  there  appeared  in  the  azure  belt  a  celestial  city.  It 
became  more  vivid,  revealing  strange  forms  and  peerless  fanes, 
rare  and  grand  in  this  mundane  sphere. 

"But  the  cloud  and  sun-capped  city  vanished  only  to  give 
place  to  a  magic  isle,  where  the  most  beautilul  forms  of  foliage 
appeared,  imaging  a  paradise  in  the  distance  and  a  purified 
celestial  air. 

"  The  sun,  wearied  of  the  elemental  commotion,  sank  behind 
the  green  plains  of  the  West.  The  great  eye  in  Heaven,  how- 
ever, went  not  down  without  a  dark  brow  hanging  over  its  de- 
parting light.  The  rich  flush  of  the  unearthly  light  had  passed 
away  and  the  rain  had  ceased,  when  the  solemn  church  bells 
pealed,  the  laughter  of  children  resounded — joy,  after  the  storm 
is  over,  the  carol  of  flitting  birds,  while  the  forked  and  purple 
weapon  of  the  skies  still  darted  illumination  around  the  Starling 
College,  trying  to  rive  its  rugged  angles  and  leap  into  its  dark 
windows. 

"Candles  are  lighted.  The  piano  strikes  up  its  melodious 
strains.  We  feel  it  is  good  to  have  a  home ;  good  to  be  on  the 
earth,  where  such  revelations  of  beauty  and  power  may  be  made. 

"And,  as  we  cannot  refrain  from  reminding  our  readers  of 
everything  wonderful  in  our  city,  we  have  begun  and  ended  our 
impulsive  etching  of  a  sunset,  which  comes  so  rarely  that  its 
resplendent  glory  should  be  committed  to  immortal  type  !  " 

I  was  introduced  to  "  Sunset  "  Cox  in  the  winter  of  1869  by 
Hon.  Charles  A.  Eldredge,  a  leader  of  the  House  of  Repre- 
sentatives from  Wisconsin.  Cox  had  just  been  elected  from 
New  York  City  to  Congress,  having  served  four  previous  terms 
from  Ohio.  He  was  in  the  prime  of  life,  vigorous,  alert,  bright, 
witty,  and  generous  to  a  fault. 

While  a  Democrat  of  unfaltering  fealty,  he  during  the  whole 
civil  war  held  up  the  hands  of  the  Government  and  voted  men 


78  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

and  money  for  the  suppression  of  the  rebellion.  He  was  the 
author  of  one  of  our  best  census  and  apportionment  enactments. 

But,  what  will  carry  his  name  and  fame  down  the  years  is  the 
establishment  of  the  Life-saving  Service  and  the  propulsion  he 
gave  to  the  letter-carrier  system  of  the  Nation.  He  was  the 
constant  guardian  of  the  ocean  life  savers  and  letter  carriers, 
two  of  the  most  important  branches  of  the  Government,  which 
merits  the  sympathy  and  encomiums  of  the  people.  Great 
danger  is  constantly  incurred  by  the  ocean  life  savers,  and  the 
most  withering  exposure  is  often  endured  uncomplainingly  by 
the  faithful  and  honest  letter  carriers. 

I  have  often  heard  "  Sunset"  Cox  express  these  sentiments 
around  the  social  board,  and  in  the  halls  of  Congress,  only  in  a 
more  emphatic  form. 

He  was  the  life  and  joy  of  the  social  board,  bubbling  with 
wit  and  humor  as  bright  as  the  sparkling  jewels  that  race  around 
the  rim  of  the  wine  cup. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  22d  day  of  February,  1881.  Pass- 
ing down  Pennsylvania  avenue  about  10  o'clock  in  the  morning 
with  Hon.  Charles  A.  Eldredge,  when  the  city  wore  its  holiday 
garb  in  celebration  of  the  Father  of  his  Country,  nearing  the 
National  Theater,  we  came  in  contact  with  "  Sunset "  Cox, 
General  Belknap,  Colonel  Crosby,  and  John  Albaugh,  the  noted 
actor  and  theatrical  manager.  Cox  seemed  to  be  full  of  the 
glorious  day  and  asked  us  to  "  celebrate."  We  unanimously 
accepted  his  invitation,  and  proceeded  to  a  private  room  in  the 
theatre.  Wine  was  ordered,  and  distributed  by  John  Hartnett, 
a  son  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  who  had  lost  none  of  his  wit  in  cross- 
ing the  ocean. 

I  moved  that  the  "  House  "  elect  a  "  Speaker  "  of  the  social 
conclave,  and  at  the  same  time  nominated  "  Sunset "  Cox.  John 
Albaugh  seconded  the  motion,  and  it  was  carried  without  a  dis- 
senting vote.  We  demanded  a  speech  or  a  song,  when  the 
"  Speaker  "  launched  out  into  eloquence  and  poetry.  Holding 
up  his  glass  to  the  Hibernian  Hebe,  he  sang : 


cox.  79 

Fill  the  goblet  again!  for  I  never  before 

Felt  the  glow  which  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  its  core; 

Let  us  drink! — who  will  not? — since  through  life's  varied  round 

In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found! 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply; 

I  have  basked  in  the  beam  of  a  dark  rolling  eye, 

I  have  loved! — who  has  not? — but  what  heart  can  declare, 

That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there. 

Long  life  to  the  grape!  for  when  summer  is  flown, 
The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own; 
We  must  die! — who  shall  not? — may  our  sins  be  forgiven — 
And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  Heaven! 

We  cheered  to  the  echo  and  drank  standing.  I  could  imagine 
the  spirit  of  the  glorious  Lord  Byron  listening  to  his  social  song, 
sung  so  sweetly  by  "Sunset"  Cox.  Like  Oliver  Twist,  we 
called  for  more,  and  the  genial  "Sunset"  gave  us  a  fine  dra- 
matic rendition  of  Melnot's  description  of  his  palace  on  the  Lake 
of  Como,  where  he  wished  to  harbor  the  beautiful  Pauline  in  the 
magic  meshes  of  his  affection. 

John  Albaugh,  by  special  request,  rendered  in  his  inimitable 
way  a  scene  from  Brutus  and  the  immortal  soliloquy  of  the 
melancholy  Dane.  .  General  Belknap  told  some  racy  war 
stories.  Mr.  Eldredge  told  some  laughable  Congressional 
yarns.  Colonel  Crosby  gave  us  the  beef-contract  story  of  the 
irrepressible  Mark  Twain,  while  I  recited  a  few  of  my  poems, 
sang  a  song,  and  whistled  the  mocking  bird. 

After  an  extended  symposum  we  adjourned  in  due  form,  feel- 
ing satisfied  that  each  patriot  had  done  full  justice  to  the  birth- 
day of  the  immortal  Washington. 

While  Mr.  Cox  was  minister  to  Turkey,  in  1885,  I  had  pub- 
lished in  New  York,  by  Thomas  R.  Knox  &  Co.,  a  volume, 
entitled  "  Peculiar  Poems,"  and  in  it  had  one  "  Lindalou  "  dedi- 
cated to  my  esteemed  friend  Cox.  I  sent  him  a  copy  of  the 
book  with  my  compliments. 


80  JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 

Soon  after  I  received  from  him  a  long  letter  from  Constanti- 
nople containing  some  very  funny  and  satirical  remarks. 

I  picture  "  Lindalou"  as  the  light  of  the  harem  and  intimate 
that  "  Sunset "  is  in  love  with  her,  making  him  say  in  one  verse — 

I  live  in  the  light  of  the  harem, 
And  bask  'neath  her  beautiful  eyes. 

Recline  on  rich  Ottoman  velvets 
To  gaze  on  the  Bosphorus  skies, 
Lindalou  and  her  sweet  paradise. 

Here  are  a  few  sentences  from  his  humorous  letter :  "I  have 
read  your  '  Peculiar  Poems '  with  great  pleasure,  but  why 
should  you  hitch  me  up  to  a  harem  beauty  and  put  me  in  the 
way  of  a  divorce  from  Mrs.  C.  and  have  the  Grand  Vizier 
strangle  an  innocent  '  Buckeye '  and  pitch  him  into  the  deep 
waters  of  the  Golden  Horn  is  more  than  I  can  understand ;  and 
that,  you  know,  would  lead  to  an  instant  war  between  the 
United  States  and  the  Ottoman  Empire,  which  would  in  all 
human  probability  set  the  whole  world  up  in  arms,  all  on  account 
of  Lindalou,'  a  fairy -like  form,  moulded  in  beauty  and  grace, 
who  floats  like  a  sylph  on  the  light  wings  of  space. 

"  Joyce,  you  have  ruined  me !  I  am  going  to  send  in  my 
resignation  very  soon  to  President  Cleveland,  who  can  appreciate 
my  '  Lindalou '  situation,  for  I  know  that  if  the  Sultan  gets 
on  to  this  ' light  of  the  harem '  business  I'm  a  'goner.' 

"I'd  rather  be  back  anyhow  with  the  Tigers  of  Tammany 
and  the  '  boys '  of  Washington  than  to  risk  my  life  monkeying 
around  '  Lindalou.'  " 

Mr.  Cox  was  at  one  time  Speaker  pro  tern,  of  the  House 
of  Representatives,  and  I  have  often  heard  his  keen,  ready 
wit  on  the  floor  and  his  fair  and  impartial  rulings  in  the 
chair.  His  wit  may  have  at  times  interfered  with  the  dignity  of 
his  public  positions  and  kept  him  from  higher  stations,  where 
silent  and  solemn  mediocrity  often  reach  by  a  system  of  somber 
philosophy,  but  his  genial  humor  kept  him  in  tone  with  the 
masses,  and  to  this  day  they  revere  his  memory.  He  was  an 


cox.  8 1 

extensive  traveler,  having  circled  the  globe  and  gathered  golden 
treasures  of  thought  wherever  he  wandered.  He  was  the  author 
of  several  interesting  books,  among  them  "Arctic  Sunbeams," 
"  Orient  Sunbeams,"  "  Why  We  Laugh,"  etc. 

His  Congressional,  campaign,  and  miscellaneous  orations  were 
masterpieces  of  wit,  humor,  and  philosophy,  seldom  leaving  a 
sting  in  the  minds  of  the  hearers,  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  grace 
and  pleasure  such  as  Pericles  might  bestow  on  an  Athenian 
audience. 

The  exit  of  such  a  genial  and  generous  being  from  the  ranks 
of  mankind  leaves  a  broken  link  in  the  chain  of  affection,  and 
the  world  feels  lonelier  for  the  absence  of  a  man  who  lived  but 
to  love  and  gave  his  best  thought  and  action  for  the  elevation 
and  progress  of  his  race. 

While  love  and  truth  are  ever  grand, 

And  noble  deeds  prevail, 
The  name  of  "  Sunset  "  Cox  shall  stand 

Through  every  ocean  gale. 

As  an  evidence  of  the  esteem  and  affection  in  which  "  Sun- 
set "  Cox  was  held  by  his  colleagues  and  compeers  it  is  only 
necessary  for  the  reader  to  glance  at  the  following  epigrammatic 
and  eloquent  tributes  paid  to  the  illustrious  dead,  when  his 
funeral  obsequies  were  held  in  the  Congress  of  the  United  States. 

The  genial  and  witty  Amos  Cummings,  of  New  York,  says : 

He  aided  in  reconciling  the  sections,  he  shielded  the  Israelite 
from  political  debarkation,  he  shortened  the  tramp  of  the  weary 
postman,  he  made  the  angry  waves  jubilant  with  the  song  of  rescue. 
He  was  a  star  in  our  political  galaxy  from  which  men  take  observa- 
tions. Whatever  weakness  he  had  came  not  from  the  poverty,  but 
from  the  plenitude  of  his  power,  and  when  occasion  demanded  he 
buried  his  political  animosities  in  his  patriotism. 

The  pugnacious,  industrious,  and  classic  Benton  McMillin,  of 
Tennessee,  says: 

Cox  was  a  great  student.  When  Atticus  asked  Cicero  to  recount 
the  means  by  which  he  had  achieved  his  marvelous  success,  the 


82  JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 

orator  replied  that  he  studied  three  years  for  the  forum  and  prac- 
ticed two  years,  during  which  he  met  Hortensius;  that  he  was  not 
satisfied  with  his  own  style,  and  that  he  traveled  two  years  in  the 
East  to  study  and  reform  it;  that  during  this  entire  seven  years  he 
hardly  let  a  day  escape  him  that  he  did  not  write  something,  mem- 
orize something,  and  compose  something.  Mr.  Cox,  like  the  elo- 
quent Tully,  was  an  untiring  worker.  I  knew  no  man  who  could 
work  more  rapidly  or  did  work  more  constantly.  He  was  gifted 
with  rare  ability  to  conceive  beautiful  and  forcible  thoughts  and 
extraordinary  eloquence  to  promulgate  them. 

He  loved  his  country  with  the  fervor  which  should  characterize 
a  patriot  whose  ancestors  had  fought  in  the  Revolution. 

General  Grosvenor,  of  Ohio,  remarks  : 

The  bright  things  which  he  said  and  which  have  passed  into  per- 
manent record  were  spontaneous  and  not  prearranged.  His  wit 
was  born  at  the  moment.  His  repartee  came  rushing  forth,  sug- 
gested by  his  opponent.  The  very  challenge  produced  the  answer. 
The  thought  came  as  a  flash  of  lightning.  It  was  inspiration. 

He  was  a  man  without  malice.  He  fought  hard  and  dealt  heavy 
blows  in  a  contest,  but  when  the  battle  ceased  there  was  no  bitter- 
ness behind.  He  had  statesmanship  as  well  as  politics. 

Mr.  Frank  Lawler,  of  Illinois,  an  Irish  patriot,  says  of  Cox  : 

He  was  a  representative  American,  proud  of  his  country,  proud 
of  the  American  people,  and  devoted  to  the  ennoblement  of  the 
American  Republic.  His  sympathies  were  broad  and  acute.  They 
welled  out  to  all  humanity  wherever  there  was  suffering  and  afflic- 
tion among  the  people. 

Mr.  McAdoo,  of  New  Jersey,  an  eloquent  son  from  the 
Emeral  Isle  and  an  American  to  the  backbone,  says  : 

Gifted,  versatile,  cosmopolitan,  the  range  of  his  mental  vision 
sped  from  land  to  land  and  ranged  the  orbits  of  other  worlds  in 
star-gemmed  space.  Intensely  American  in  the  best  and  highest 
sense,  he  was  neighbor  and  brother  to  all  mankind.  He  lived  in 
close  communion  with  nature,  loving  the  beautiful  and  the  good, 
and  his  pulses  timed  their  beat  with  the  throbs  of  the  great  heart 
of  humanity,  and  his  very  heart-strings  vibrated  to  the  sublime 
anthem  of  universal  liberty. 

Mr.  Covert,  of  New  York,  pays  an  eloquent  tribute  to  our 


cox.  83 

departed  friend,  and  quotes  the  beautiful  and  solemn  poem  of 
Gen.  Albert  Pike,  the  great  luminary  of  Masonry. 

And  so,  loving  and  loved,  Cox  passed  from  the  semi-darkness  of 
this  life  into  the  eternal  light  and  glory  of  the  light  hereafter. 

"  To  the  past  go  more  dead  faces 

Every  year, 
As  the  loved  leave  vacant  places 

Every  year. 

Everywhere  their  sad  eyes  meet  us; 
In  the  evening's  dusk  they  greet  us, 
And  to  come  to  them  entreat  us 

Every  year. 

"  You  are  growing  old,  they  tell  us, 

Every  year; 
You  are  more  alone,  they  tell  us, 

Every  year. 

You  can  win  no  new  affection; 
You  have  only  recollection, 
Deeper  sorrow  and  dejection 

Every  year. 

"  But  the  truer  life  draws  nigher 

Every  year, 
And  its  morning  star  climbs  higher 

Every  year. 

Earth's  hold  on  us  grows  slighter, 
And  its  heavy  burden  lighter, 
And  the  dawn  immortal  brighter 

Every  year." 

The  witty  and  epigrammatic  Ash.  Caruth,  of  Kentucky,  says : 

Not  only  was  Cox  a  great  orator  and  a  great  statesman,  but  he 
was  a  scholar  besides.  I  asked  him  once  how  he  found  time  in  his 
busy  life  to  give  attention  to  literary  matters  and  charm  by  printed 
page  as  he  had  by  spoken  word,  and  he  told  me  that  God  had 
given  him  a  helpmate  in  the  person  of  his  wife,  and  that  she  had 
shared  bis  labors  as  she  had  indeed  doubled  the  pleasures  of  his 
life.  And  thus,  loved  at  home,  admired  by  his  peers,  honored  by 
the  people,  the  statesman,  the  wit,  the  scholar,  passed  his  life  away. 
The  passing  years  left  but  little  impress  on  his  brow  and  made  no 
mark  upon  his  heart. 


84  JEWELS   OF   MEMORY. 

General  Wheeler,  of  Alabama,  a  dashing  cavalry  officer  of 
the  late  Confederacy,  pays  "  Sunset "  this  noble  and  sententious 
compliment : 

Firm  as  a  rock,  brilliant  as  a  star,  artless  as  a  child,  pure  as  a 
woman,  God  endowed  him  for  a  good  purpose  with  a  resiliency  of 
wit,  a  faculty  of  impersonation,  and  an  irresistible  mimicry  and  a 
dramatic  power  that  were  inexhaustible.  How  much  the  world 
owes  to  such  a  nature  we  cannot  tell.  It  is  often  a  greater  good  to 
cause  a  laugh  than  to  start  a  tear.  We  all  cry  enough,  God  knows, 
and  have  enough  to  cry  about,  and  we  need  no  impulse  in  that 
direction.  But  he  who  can  scatter  our  gloom  by  innocent  merri- 
ment has  been  to  us  an  emancipator! 

Senator  Voorhees,  of  Indiana,  a  genuine  gentleman  and  lofty 
orator,  speaks  of  our  dear  friend  in  this  heroic  fashion  : 

With  the  eye  of  a  philosopher  and  with  a  soul  filled  with  the  poetry 
and  sublimity  of  high  historic  associations,  he  saw  almighty  Rome, 
climbed  the  Pyramids,  and  stood  upon  Mount  Calvary.  He  tra- 
versed deserts  on  the  camel's  back  and  camped  at  nightfall  with 
the  Bedouin  at  long-sought  wells  of  fresh  water.  He  floated  on  the 
waters  of  the  Nile,  and  plucked  the  lotus,  the  Egyptians'  symbol 
of  the  creation.  He  marked  the  course  of  the  Euphrates;  looked 
upon  the  Red  Sea  where  Pharaoh  attempted  to  cross  in  pursuit  of 
fugitive  slaves;  drank  from  the  river  Jordan,  and  slept  by  the  cool- 
ing fountains  of  Damascus. 

Wherever  he  traveled  and  in  whatever  clime  he  sojourned  what  a 
stanch  and  genuine  American  he  was!  The  sunbeams  of  the  Orient, 
the  soft  skies  of  Italy,  the  grandest  scenery  of  the  Alps,  were  not  so 
attractive  or  sublime  to  him  as  the  face  of  nature  in  his  own  western 
home.  After  gliding  on  the  waters  of  the  blue  Danube  and  along 
the  castellated  heights  of  the  Rhine,  he  was  wont  to  say  that  the 
Hudson  between  Albany  and  New  York  and  the  Ohio  from  Steu- 
benville  to  Cincinnati  presented  more  beauty  to  the  eye  of  the 
traveler  than  any  other  rivers  of  the  world. 

Sir,  such  a  character  as  I  have  but  imperfectly  delineated  must 
take  and  hold  a  front  place  in  the  history  of  his  country.  His  works 
are  durable  contributions  to  the  cause  of  human  progress,  and  they 
cannot  perish.  Their  influences  will  bide  the  test  of  time  and  will 
go  on  forever! 


cox.  85 

Senator  Vest,  of  Missouri,  the  ever-ready  and  humorous  states- 
man, says : 

Cox  was  in  some  respects  the  most  remarkable  man  I  have  known 
in  public  affairs.  Whilst  there  was  nothing  majestic  or  rugged  in 
his  nature,  he  was  beyond  question  better  adapted  to  public  life  as 
known  to  the  American  people  than  any  other  man  in  all  my  ac- 
quaintance. He  was  capable  of  indefatigable  labor,  with  varied 
accomplishments,  versatile  talents,  wonderful  eloquence,  and  a 
tenacity  of  purpose  which  knew  nothing  like  fajlure. 

Hon.  J.  Proctor  Knott,  of  Kentucky,  made  a  grand  oration 
upon  the  memory  of  Mr.  Cox  at  the  great  Cooper  Union  meet- 
ing in  New  York.  Here  are  a  couple  of  sparkling  gems  from 
his  symmetrical  masterpiece,  and  would  do  credit  to  Pericles,  who 
delivered  the  eulogium  over  the  dead  Athenians  : 

Beneath  the  rippling,  sparkling  surface  of  his  never-failing,  effer- 
vescent humor  there  lay  the  serenest  depths  of  thought,  an  energy 
of  will  that  knew  no  impediment,  and  powers  of  intellectual  labor 
that  defied  fatigue. 

His  hunger  for  information  was  as  ravenous  as  the  genius  of 
famine.  It  devoured  everything  that  could  amuse  the  fancy,  im- 
prove the  mind,  or  elevate  the  soul.  His  fealty  to  the  Union  was 
paramount  to  all  other  obligations;  his  pride  in  its  grandeur  and 
power  touched  the  extremest  limit  of  exultant  enthusiasm  ;  his 
veneration  for  its  Constitution  was  the  supreme  sentiment  of  his 
soul;  his  faith  in  its  destiny  transcended  the  wildest  dream  of 
optimism. 


CHAPTER  X. 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 

THE  poet-journalist  is  sometimes  found  in  the  same  person, 
but  the  Muse  soars  aloft  and  circles  over  the  tripod  like  an 
Alpine  eagle  over  the  hungry  vulture  of  the  valley. 

The  true  poet,  profound  or  ethereal,  is  like  a  wandering  spirit 
shot  out  of  its  celestial  orb  into  a  strange  planet,  where  his  soar- 
ing and  sensitive  nature  wear  out  his  weary  wings  battling  against 
the  sordid  creatures  that  stare  in  amazement  at  the  brilliant  colors 
of  his  plumage. 

Some  day  he  is  found  dead  in  a  little  corner  of  the  globe  with 
his  bright  wings  folded  forever,  his  impulsive  warm  heart  cold, 
and  his  classic  face  furrowed  with  the  wrinkles  of  uncongenial 
elements  that  have  left  him  a  wreck  on  the  shores  of  time. 

Over  the  cold  ashes  of  the  poet  the  world  will  gather  with 
mournful  mien  and  sigh  at  the  grave  of  buried  genius.  Yes- 
terday, he  suffered  for  sympathy  and  bread ;  today,  a  funeral 
train  honors  his  memory ;  tomorrow,  a  monument  will  point 
posterity  to  a  prodigy  of  celestial  aspirations,  whose  songs  will 
thrill  the  heart  of  mankind  through  the  crowding  ages. 

Yes;  when  he's  seen  no  more  in  field  or  town, 
And  all  his  mortal  part  lies  cold  and  dead, 

Some  sage  or  city  for  their  own  renown 
Will  give  a  shaft  where  once  he  needed  bread. 

I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  three  of  the  most  illus- 
trious American  poets — -Henry  W.  Longfellow,  from  the  pine- 
clad  hills  of  Maine ;  William  Cullen  Bryant,  from  the  granite 
hills  of  Massachusetts,  and  George  D.  Prentice,  from  the  rolling 
rivers  and  circling  bays  of  Connecticut.  These  famous  men  had 
(86) 


PRENTICE.  87 

many  elements  in  common  and  have  left  their  "  footprints  on  the 
sands  of  time." 

Longfellow  was  purely  poetical,  while  Bryant  and  Prentice 
joined  journalism  with  poetry,  and  through  the  press  wrought 
in  the  interest  of  statesmanship  and  the  success  of  republican 
government.  They  were  profound  scholars,  and,  while  not  en- 
dowed with  the  elemental  philosophy  of  Aristotle,  Plato,  or 
Newton,  their  views  of  life,  death,  and  time,  as  exemplified  in  the 
"  Psalm  of  Life,"  "  Thanatopsis,"  and  "  The  Closing  Year  "  will 
always  remain  masterpieces  of  literary  philosophy. 

Longfellow  exclaimed  with  pathetic  voice : 

"Art  is  long  and  Time  is  fleeting, 
And  our  hearts  tho"  stout  and  brave, 
Still  like  muffled  drums  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

"  Trust  no  future,  howe'er  pleasant! 
Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead! 
Act,  act  in  the  living  present! 
Heart  within  and  God  o'erhead!" 

Bryant  views  death  in  this  sublime  flight : 

"The  hills; 

Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun,  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and  poured  round  all 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man!" 

Prentice  contemplates  on  Time  and  "  The  Closing  Year"  in 
these  profound  and  philosophic  phrases,  superior  in  my  estima- 
tion to  anything  ever  written  by  his  compeers — dished  off,  too, 
on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  at  the  clamorous  solicitation  of 
a  lot  of  little  newsboys,  who  wanted  an  address  to  sell  to  their 
patrons  on  New  Year's  Day. 


88  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

'"Tis  midnight's  holy  hour,  and  silence  now 
Is  brooding  like  a  gentle  spirit  o'er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.        *        *        * 
The  year  has  gone,  and  with  it  many  a  glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.     Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  in  each  heart.     In  its  awful  course 
.  It  waved  its  scepter  o'er  the  beautiful, 
And  they  are  not.        *        *        * 
Remorseless  time! 
Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe, 
What  power  can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course 
Or  melt  his  iron  heart  to  pity. 

On,  still  on,  he  presses  and  forever.        *        *        * 
The  proud  bird — 

The  condor  of  the  Andes  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven's  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  northern  hurricane 
And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home — 
Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall  and  sinks  down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag — but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness.         *        *        * 

"  New  empires  rise — 
Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 
And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche, 
Startling  the  nations;  and  the  very  stars, 
Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 
Glitter  awhile  in  their  eternal  depths, 
And  like  the  Pleaids,  loveliest  of  their  train, 
Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres  and  pass  away 
To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void;  yet  Time, 
Time,  the  tomb  builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 
Dark,  stern,  all-pitiless,  and  pauses  not 
Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path 
To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors, 
Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought! 

Many  of  the  personal  poems  of  Prentice  rank  in  the  first  class, 
notably  his  "  Lines  to  an  Absent  Wife"  and  his  "  Name  in  the 
Sand,"  in  which  his  soul  soars  up  to  his  Creator. 


PRENTICE.  ^  89 

"And  yet,  with  Him  who  counts  the  sands 
And  holds  the  waters  in  his  hands 
I  know  a  lasting  record  stands 
Inscribed  against  my  name; 
Of  all  this  mortal  part  has  wrought 
Of  all  my  thinking  soul  has  thought 
And  from  these  fleeting  moments  caught, 
For  glory  or  for  shame!" 

In  the  presence  of  Longfellow,  seated  in  his  library  at  Cam- 
bridge, with  his  snowy  locks,  benevolent  face,  and  soothing 
voice  the  gentle  spirit  of  Evangeline  and  Minnehaha  seemed  to 
hover  near,  and  his  melancholy  wail,  by  the  sea,  at  "  the  bridge  " 
spontaneously  bubbled  up  in  my  mind. 

"  How  often,  O,  how  often 
I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 
Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide!" 

It  was  the  summer  before  the  poet's  death,  in  1881,  that  I 
gazed  for  the  last  time  on  the  sweet  singer,  and  even  then  I 
could  see  that  the  "  ebbing  tide  "  was  silently  bearing  him  away 
o'er  the  celestial  ocean  that  washes  the  shores  of  immortality  ! 

I  was  in  New  York  City  in  1875  at  the  Astor  House  and  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  a  literary  friend  to  see  the  poet  Bryant.  He 
remarked  that  the  poet  did  not  come  to  the  office  of  the  Post 
very  often,  but  we  might  step  over  and  see  Godwin  and  find 
out.  We  went  and  luckily  found  the  literary  lion,  to  whom  I 
was  introduced.  He  impressed  me  deeply,  spoke  in  a  solemn 
voice,  looked  like  an  Oriental  sage,  with  a  grand  dome  of  thought, 
jutting  brow  and  flowing  beard,  over  a  body  not  rugged  or 
strong.  I  spoke  of  reading  his  "  Thanatopsis  "  at  school,  in 
Kentucky,  and  of  being  infatuated  with  all  the  grand  poets  of  the 
ages. 

"  Yes ;  "  said  he,  "  I'm  glad  you  like  poetry.  It  has  been 
the  heaven  of  my  earthly  career,  and  were  I  naked  of  all 
worldy  trappings,  I  would  not  exchange  the  glorious  pleasures 


90    f  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

of  the  Muses  for  all  the  wealth  of  Croesus.  '  Thanatopsis  '  was 
one  of  my  earliest  poems,  and,  strange  to  say,  many  of  my  liter- 
ary friends  throughout  the  world  think  it  my  best  production." 

Mr.  Bryant,  may  I  ask  what  you  think  about  it  ? 

"  Well,"  said  the  sage,  "  it  is  hard  to  battle  against  the  verdict 
of  the  world,  but  for  a  broad  view  of  human  life  and  teaching 
the  truth  of  immortality  I  think  "  The  Flood  of  Years  "  contains 
the  best  thoughts  I  have  uttered ;  and  yet  some  of  my  minor 
poems,  expressing  the  grief  of  my  surcharged  heart  over  the 
'  Death  of  the  Flowers '  or  the  carnage  of  '  The  Battlefield  ' 
have  quatrains  that  may  live  when  some  of  my  more  pretentious 
lines  are  buried  in  the  grave  of  forgetfulness.  For  instance — 

"  Truth  crushed  to  earth  shall  rise  again; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers; 
But  error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain 
And  dies  among  his  worshipers!' 

.  f 

The  grand  old  patriarch  paused,  we  arose,  bade  him  a  last 
farewell,  and  found  our  way  into  the  tumbling,  rumbling  life  that 
swells  the  tide  of  human  affairs  on  Broadway. 

I  became  personally  acquainted  with  George  D.  Prentice,  the 
celebrated  wit,  journalist,  and  poet  in  the  month  of  January, 
1863,  at  Louisville,  Ky.  He  was  then  about  sixty-one  years  of 
age,  and  the  ravages  of  time  had  deeply  furrowed  his  features 
and  twisted  his  gnarled  form.  I  was  at  the  time  about  twenty- 
one  years  of  age  and  adjutant  of  the  Twenty-fourth  Kentucky 
Regiment.  My  regiment  was  camped  at  the  "  Oaklands,"  a 
suburban  site  near  the  city.  Previous  to  my  enlistment  I  had 
from  my  home  in  Mount  Sterling  sent  some  fugitive  verses  to 
the  Louisville  Journal  that  appeared  in  the  poet's  corner,  and, 
of  course,  like  all  young  fledgling  who  aspire  to  court  the  Muses, 
I  was  flattered  and  imagined  that  the  spirits  of  Homer,  Byron, 
and  Edgar  Allen  Poe  were  looking  right  down  on  my  growing 
greatness.  I  felt,  too,  that  the  author  of  "  The  Closing  Year  " 
was  cognizant  of  a  new-found  star  in  the  celestial  realm  of  poesy. 


PRENTICE.  91 

I  concluded  to  call  on  the  great  Llama  of  literature  and  loy- 
alty, and  to  this  end  secured  a  pass  for  forty-eight  hours  to  pro- 
tect me  against  the  scrutinizing  eyes  of  provost  guards  or  the 
shoulder-strapped  minions  of  Colonel  Mark  Mundy,  the  post 
commander. 

I  had  been  paid  off  and  received  some  four  months'  back 
wages,  purchased  a  stunning  uniform  with  gold  gilt  buttons  and 
staff  shoulder-straps  almost  as  large  as  a  bar  of  soap !  Thus,, 
panoplied  in  all  the  trappings  of  glorious  war,  with  a  pocketful 
of  cash,  I  sailed  out  of  camp,  as  it  were,  in  company  with  my 
schoolmate,  Will.  L.  Visscher,  passed  over  Broadway  and  into- 
Green  street,  where  the  old  Journal  office  was  located.  I  im- 
agined that  the  overcoat  of  General  Grant  would  not  make  a 
vest  for  this  proud  adjutant,  and  that  the  ladies  I  passed  on  the 
street  were  gloriously  impressed  with  my  military  bearing. 

As  a  bracer  to  the  ordeal  I  was  about  to  undergo,  I  invited 
Visscher  to  join  me  in  a  bottle  of  wine  at  the  celebrated  Walker's 
Exchange.  After  irrigating  our  anatomy  with  the  exhilarating 
fluid  we  proceeded  to  the  Journal  office.  Visscher  left  me  at 
the  bottom  of  the  steps  leading  to  the  editorial  room  of  the 
great  poet  and  journalist,  saying  that  he  had  an  engagement  to 
meet  one  of  the  belles  of  Louisville,  but  promised  that  he  would 
see  me  in  an  hour  or  two  at  the  Gait  House. 

It  was  then  about  3  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  I  marched 
up  the  rickety  stairs  around  a  dark  hall  filled  with  stacks  of 
blank  paper  and  was  stalking  on  to  the  den  of  the  editor  when 
a  "  smoked  Yankee,"  like  an  ogre,  intercepted  my  further  prog- 
ress and  exclaimed,  "  What  ye  want,  sah  ?"  I  replied  that  I 
wished  to  see  Mr.  Prentice.  "  Send  in  yer  cad,  sah !"  I  had 
forgotten  to  lay  in  a  supply  of  cards,  but  with  that  presence  of 
mind  that  never  forsakes  a  great  soldier  tore  off  a  corner  of  the 
printing  paper  in  the  hall,  wrote  my  name,  and  gave  it  to  the  im- 
perial menial.  He  soon  returned  and  waved  me  into  the  royal 
sanctum.  I  straightened  up,  shook  down  my  trousers,  settled 
into  my  coat  as  if  moulded  for  the  garment,  and  then  marched 


92  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

in  with  the  air  of  a  drum  major  on  dress 'parade.  I  looked 
around  the  shabby,  naked  room,  saw  a  stout,  low-built  man  writ- 
ing away  at  a  rude  desk  with  a  very  tremulous  hand.  His  head 
was  large,  round,  and  somewhat  bald,  but  the  bumps  and  fur- 
rows on  his  brow  reminded  me  of  Socrates  or  some  of  the 
ancient  philosophers  whose  pictures  I  had  seen  in  historical 
and  classical  works.  He  did  not  look  up,  although  he  must 
have  known  that  I  was  present,  for  I  coughed,  tramped  around, 
and  becoming  impatient  at  non-recognition  finally  threw  on  the 
floor  a  pile  of  newspapers  off  the  only  stool  in  the  room,  right 
near  his  desk,  and  planted  my  military  greatness  on  the  sight 
of  the  displaced  literature.  He  went  right  on  with  his  scratch- 
ing hieroglyphics  until  he  got  to  the  bottom  of  the  page,  and 
threw  down  his  pen,  whirled  about  in  his  chair,  and  with  a  look 
of  mingled  madness  and  sententious  satire  said,  "  Who  are 
you  ?  "  "  I'm  a  fool !  "  "  So  am  I ;  shake  !  "  And  that  was 
our  first  acquaintance.  His  brow  began  to  relax  its  intensity 
and  a  furtive  smile  came  over  his  his  countenance  as  he  gazed 
on  my  military  make-up. 

"  So  you're  an  adjutant,  are  you  ?     What's  that  ?  " 
"  That,  sir,"  I  replied,  "  is  the  hinge  to  the  door  jamb  of  a 
colonel." 

"An,  indeed ;  do  you  ever  drink  ?  " 
"  Never;  except  when  alone  or  in  company." 
"  Tom,  my  carriage !  " 

He  took  up  his  gold-headed  cane,  hobbled  down  the  stairs 
to  the  street,  where  we  took  the  carriage  and  rode  to  the  Gait 
House.  I  was  ushered  into  a  wine  room  back  of  the  office  and 
introduced  to  Major  Silas  Miller,  the  proprietor,  and  to  Mr. 
Magoffin  and  Mr.  Owsley.  Prentice  put  up  two  fingers  and  soon 
there  appeared  a  servant  with  two  quart  bottles  of  Heidsieck 
wine.  Five  glasses  were  brought,  and  the  waiter  filled  them 
to  the  brim.  Prentice  held  up  his  glass  and  said :  "  Gentle- 
men, I  want  to  drink  to  the  health  of  our  young  adjutant,  who 
tells  me  that  he  is  a  poet  and  a  fool !  "  We  drank  with  a  vim, 
and,  although  I  felt  nettled  at  the  toast,  I  thought  myself  too 


PRENTICE.  93 

sharp  to  reply  to  these  old,  wise,  and  witty  cronies,  who  spent 
part  of  most  every  afternoon  in  Bacchanalian  revelry.  Visscher 
appeared  at  this  moment,  and  I  introduced  him  to  the  quartet 
of  solid  citizens. 

Another  glass  was  brought,  and  we  filled  to  the  brim  once 
more.  I  proposed  the  toast,  "  The  United  States."  They 
drank  it,  although  Magoffin  and  Owsley  did  not  seem  very 
enthusiastic  about  my  patriotic  sentiment. 

I  put  up  two  fingers  for  the  eye  of  the  "  contraband,"  and 
soon  the  Heidsieck  dose  was  repeated.  Wit,  words,  humor, 
laughter,  and  cross-firing  began  in  fine  style  as  the  wine  was 
doing  its  perfect  work,  and  Prentice  led  the  conversation  with 
keen  satire  and  thrusts  all  round  the  board.  I  could  imagine 
myself  seated  at  "  the  Club  "  with  Dr.  Sam  Johnson,  Garrick, 
Beauclerc,  Goldsmith,  and  company,  rattling  away  the  hours  in 
glorious  jollity.  The  wine  began  to  work  upon  my  poetic  mem- 
ories, and  I  dashed  into  the  arena  like  a  gladiator  from  the 
gulches  of  Gaul,  first  spouting  "  The  Closing  Year  "  as  a  com- 
pliment to  Prentice,  and  I  must  say  that  the  poet  and  his  friends 
seemed  delighted  at  my  rendition  of  his  celebrated  poem. 

Prentice  then  began  his  badinage  and  spurred  me  about  pre- 
suming to  think  that  I  was  a  poet,  and  finally  defied  me  to 
write  something  offhand  and  prove  to  his  friends  that  I  was  not 
a  pretender. 

I  said,  "All  right ;  what  shall  I  write  about  ?  "  "  Oh,"  said 
Prentice,  "write  about  anything — write  about  us,  wine,  feasting 
fun,  or  philosophy."  I  asked  for  paper,  and  it  was  furnished.  I 
then  turned  around  to  a  side  table,  pulled  my  memories  together, 
thought  of  Horace,  the  Falernian  wine  poet,  and  one  of  his  odes, 
where  he  speaks  of  people  joining  you  when  you  laugh,  but 
declining  to  cling  to  you  when  you  weep.  Then,  too,  the  sug- 
gestions of  Prentice  and  the  surrounding  scene  and  anchored 
in  my  mind  and  inspired  my  lines. 

I  immediately  pulled  a  pencil  from  my  pocket  and  wrote  the 
following  verses  inside  of  fifteen  minutes,  while  my  companions 
were  dumping  down  wine  with  hilarious  vociferation : 


94  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you, 

Weep  and  you  weep  alone; 

This  grand  old  earth  must  borrow  its  mirth, 

It  has  troubles  enough  of  its  own. 

Sing,  and  the  hills  will  answer; 

Sigh,  it  is  lost  on  the  air; 

The  echoes  bound  to  a  joyful  sound, 

But  shrink  from  voicing  care. 

Be  glad,  and  your  friends  are  many; 

Be  sad,  and  you  lose  them  all; 

There  are  none  to  decline  your  nectared  wine, 

But  alone  you  must  drink  life's  gall; 

There  is  room  in  the  halls  of  pleasure 

For  a  long  and  a  lordly  train, 

But  one  by  one  we  must  all  file  on 

Through  the  narrow  aisles  of  pain. 

Feast,  and  your  halls  are  crowded; 

Fast,  and  the  world  goes  by; 

Succeed  and  give,  'twill  help  you  live, 

But  no  one  can  help  you  die. 

Rejoice,  and  men  will  seek  you; 

Grieve,  and  they  turn  and  go — 

They  want  full  measure  of  all  your  pleasure, 

But  they  do  not  want  your  woe! 

I  threw  these  lines  to  Prentice.  He  read  them  to  the  revelers, 
and  then  exclaimed :  "  Si.,"  speaking  to  Miller,  "  didn't  I  tell 
you  that  fellow  was  a  fool  ?  Now  I  know  he's  crazy !  " 

Well,  the  world  has  had  the  benefit  of  my  brain  baby  for 
thirty  years,  although  "  Exchange,"  "Anonymous,"  and  other 
literary  robbers  have  claimed  it.  What  care  I  ?  Mankind  can 
make  the  most  of  it.  More  than  a  dozen  other  of  my  verses 
have  gone  the  rounds  of  the  press  under  the  colors  of  some 
plagiarist. 

The  glorious  Prentice  has  slept  beneath  the  sod  for  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  but  the  grand  thoughts  that  he  uttered  in 
life  will  spread  over  the  years  like  perfume  from  an  unseen  censer 
and  thrill  the  heart  of  mankind  when  the  memory  of  his  social 
and  literary  critics  are  washed  into  the  waters  of  oblivion. 


CHAPTER   XL 


"PARSON"   BROWNLOW. 

WILLIAM  G.  BROWNLOW,  of  East  Tennessee,  was  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  men  I  ever  met.  He  was  of  slender  build,  six 
foot  tall,  high  forehead,  classic  features,  thin,  firm  lips,  prominent, 
chiseled  nose,  and  a  bluish  gray  eye  that  was  as  direct  and  sure 
as  death.  He  had  what  might  be  called  a  triangle  head  and 
countenance.  He  possessed  the  wisdom  and  truth  of  Socrates, 
the  firmness  and  belief  of  Galilei,  the  bravery,  and  rashness  of 
Winklereid,  and  the  stolidity  and  fanaticism  of  John  Brown, 

He  came  from  Virginia  rural  stock ;  rode  the  circuit  as  a  moun- 
tain Methodist  preacher,  bestrode  the  tripod  as  an  editor  and 
wit,  stood  for  the  Union  in  the  midst  of  the  whirlpool  of  rebellion, 
graced  the  Governor's  chair  of  his  adopted  State,  and  finally 
reached  the  United  States  Senate,  where  he  shone  like  a  land- 
mark of  loyalty  and  commanded  the  sincere  respect  of  his  great- 
est compeers. 

No  threat  of  chains  or  death  could  make  him  swerve  from  a 
position  once  taken,  and  at  Knoxville,  in  the  very  teeth  of  armed 
rebel  fury,  after  the  fire  on  Fort  Sumter,  he  belabored  treason 
through  the  columns  of  the  Whig  with  the  most  caustic  casti- 
gation  and  abuse,  and  hoisted  the  Stars  and  Stripes  over  his 
home  as  a  bold  defiance  to  the  Confederate  troops  that  passed 
night  and  day  by  his  door. 

He  courted  the  vengeance  of  Jeff.  Davis,  Secretary  Benjamin, 
and  General  Crittenden,  and  even  after  the  suppression  of  his 
paper,  while  in  jail  condemned  to  death  by  a  drumhead  court- 
martial,  he  wrote  his  scaffold  speech  and  defied  all  the  powers 
of  the  Confederacy.  Such  characters  as  John  Brown,  Abraham 

(95) 


g6  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

Lincoln,  and  "  Parson  "  Brownlow  are  met  but  once  in  a  cent- 
ury, and  only  when  universal  wrong,  like  slavery,  calls  great 
moral  heroes  to  the  front. 

I  was  introduced  to  Parson  Brownlow  by  his  son,  Col.  John 
Bell  Brownlow,  in  the  Marble  Room  of  the  Senate,  when  the 
old  hero  was  suffering  with  physical  ailments,  being  compelled, 
like  another  Radical — Thaddeus  Stevens — to  be  wheeled  about 
in  an  invalid's  chair.  His  voice  was  clear  and  musical,  his  sen- 
tences clean  cut  as  a  razor,  and  his  whole  countenance  pictured 
the  ideal  Puritan. 

I  spoke  of  being  from  Kentucky,  whose  mountain  walls  rose 
like  barriers  of  loyalty  on  the  boundary  of  his  own  beloved  East 
Tennessee,  where  the  Cumberland  River  winds  its  rushing  way 
through  those  everlasting  rock-ribbed  heights  of  patriotism. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  have  always  loved  the  people  of  Ken- 
tucky. I  regarded  Mr.  Clay  the  greatest  statesman  America 
produced.  Mr.  Prentice,  the  poet  and  wit,  too,  I  liked  in  my 
heart,  although  he  and  I  crossed  editorial  lances  sometimes  with 
flashing  acrimony.  We  warred  in  our  papers,  and  while  the 
Journal  often  struck  me  to  the  bone,  I  merely  winced  and  tried 
to  give  back  a  Roland  for  an  Oliver.  Prentice  had  a  loyal 
heart,  while  his  family  were  rebels. 

"  I  predicted  and  knew  that  secession  and  rebellion  would 
fail,  tried  my  best  to  convince  its  leaders,  Davis,  Yancy,  Toombs, 
and  Isham  Harris,  but  they  were  hell-bent  on  breaking  up  the 
Union.  I  thought  at  times  that  the  Abolitionists  went  too  far ; 
and  I  felt  that  while  the  Constitution  and  laws  permitted  slavery 
it  should  not  be  disturbed  where  it  then  existed,  any  more  than 
any  other  property. 

"  But,  when  the  flag  on  Sumter  was  shot  down  by  defiant 
traitors  and  treason  reared  its  horrible  head,  I  could  see  nothing 
but  the  whole  Union  and  its  glorious  history.  From  that 
moment  to  this  I  have  staked  my  property,  liberty,  and  life  for 
the  Nation,  and  had  I  ten  thousand  lives  I  would  gladly  give 
them  all  for  the  Union." 


BROWNLOW.  97 

I  remarked  to  him  that  East  Tennessee  never  seceded. 

"  No  !  "  said  he,  "  so  long  as  Smoky  Mountain  and  Cumber- 
land Mountain  rear  their  pine-clad  peaks  to  the  sky  and  the 
waters  of  the  Cumberland,  French  Broad,  and  Holston  run  down 
to  the  sea,  so  long  will  East  Tennessee  stand  by  the  Union. 
We  are  patriots  without  price,  and  in  proportion  to  our  popu- 
lation sent  more  soldiers  into  the  Union  Army  than  any  other 
spot  in  America.  We  are  a  simple  and  provincial  people  in 
our  manners  and  habits,  not  garnishing  our  words  or  acts  with 
hypocrisy.  Our  mountains  and  uplands  are  rugged,  our  valleys 
narrow  but  fertile,  and  a  vein  of  genuine  liberty,  patriotism,  and 
religion  runs  through  the  hearts  of  our  people  as  true  as  the 
foresters  of  the  Tyrol  Swiss  mountains." 

"  Senator,"  said  I,  "  how  did  you  feel  when  you  went  on  the 
platform  at  Knoxville  to  answer  William  L.  Yancy  and  his 
secession  doctrine  ?  " 

"  I  felt,  my  dear  sir,  that  some  one  ought  to  answer  his  false 
doctrine,  and,  as  none  of  my  neighbors  wished  to  take  the  lead, 
I  thought  it  my  duty  to  do  so.  That  was  a  wild  mob  audience, 
and  I  have  wondered  since  that  some  of  the  young  bloods  did 
not  shoot  me. 

"  Yancy  was  very  mad,  and  his  black,  flashing  eyes  shone 
upon  me  like  those  of  a  tiger,  and  while  he  seemed  ready  to 
leap  at  me  he  did  not  have  the  courage  to  do  so.  I  was  ready 
to  die  right  there,  and,  as  my  Lord  and  Master  wore  the  mar- 
tyr's crown,  I,  too,  was  not  unwilling  to  share  his  sacrifice  for 
the  everlasting  principles  of  truth." 

"  May  I  ask  if  you  really  thought  they  would  hang  you  the 
night  you  wrote  your  scaffold  speech  in  the  Knoxville  jail  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  firmly  believed  that  they  would  hang  me  at  daylight. 
The  drumhead  court-martial  tried  me  in  my  absence  for  treason ! 
A  good  joke,  wasn't  it  ?  Infernal  traitors  trying  a  patriot  for 
treason  ;  holding  a  court  in  hell,  with  Lucifer  for  judge.  They 
were  only  too  glad  to  send  me  to  Nashville  through  the  lines, 
and  I  believe  it  was  a  great  relief  to  Davis,  Benjamin,  and  Crit- 


98  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

tenden  when  they  forced  me,  a  lone,  weary  refugee,  to  leave 
their  dastard  dominions." 

"  But,  Senator,  did  you  not  return  to  Nashville  soon  after  the 
Harris  legislature  impulsively  skedaddled  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  that  was  a  very  funny  scene.  The  first  reports  from 
Fort  Donelson  told  in  glowing  colors  how  Buckner  had  captured 
Grant,  and  the  whole  town  and  rebel  legislature  got  enthusiast- 
ically drunk,  but  the  next  day  the  boot  was  on  the  other  leg, 
and  Buell  was  reported  to  be  advancing  rapidly  on  the  city  of 
rocks.  Great  was  the  consternation  and  desire  of  the  legislature 
to  adjourn  to  a  more  congenial  clime.  Many  places  to  the  south 
were  suggested.  The  Speaker  at  last  brought  down  his  gavel 
and  said :  '  If  we  never  meet  again  in  this  world,  I  hope  we  shall 
meet  in  Heaven.' 

"At  this  juncture  a  comical  character  from  Hawkins  County, 
named  Bill  Simpson,  a  Union  man,  who  was  loaded  with  liquid 
enthusiasm  at  the  good  news,  staggered  to  the  front  and  replied : 
'  Mr.  Speaker,  I  hope  this  body  will  not  adjourn  to  meet  in 
Heaven,  for  they  will  never  have  a  quorum  there !  ' ' 

After  a  few  more  remarks  I  left  the  great  patriot,  shaking  the 
hand  of  a  man  that  had  the  faith  of  Peter  the  Hermit,  Martin 
Luther,  and  Lorenzo  Dow. 

For  many  years  he  has  slept  in  Gray  Cemetery,  overlooking 
the  Holston  River  at  Knoxville,  and  while  the  eagles  of  his 
mountain  home  soar  into  the  upper  blue  and  the  waters  of  the 
French  Broad  dash  down  their  rocky  heights,  his  name  will  be 
revered,  and  the  day  is  not  distant  when  all  the  people  of  Ten- 
nessee will  erect  a  splendid  monument  to  the  memory  of  a  noble 
man  who  was  true  and  faithful  unto  death. 

Jim  and  John,  the  gallant  sons  of  the  grand  old  "Parson,"  raised 
regiments  for  the  Union  Army  and  commanded  them  on  many 
a  hard-fought  field.  John  led  the  charge  at  Greenville,  Tenn., 
on  the  morning  of  the  4th  of  September,  1864,  that  resulted  in 
the  death  of  the  Confederate  General  John  Morgan,  of  Kentucky. 

In  the  month  of  July,  1864,  Col.  Jim  Brownlow  performed 


BROWNLOW.  99 

one  of  the  rarest  and  bravest  acts  of  the  civil  war  in  crossing  the 
Chattahooche  River. 

Maj.  Gen.  Ed.  McCook,  the  illustrious  cavalry  officer  of  the 
Army  of  the  Cumberland  and  late  Governor  of  Colorado,  makes 
the  following  statement  in  an  official  report  July  g,  1864,  to  his 
superior  officer : 

A  detachment,  under  Colonel  Dorr,  crossed  the  pontoon  this 
afternoon  and  scouted  the  country  in  front  of  General  Schofield. 
They  found  the  enemy's  cavalry  there  in  force.  Colonel  Brown- 
low  performed  one  of  his  characteristic  feats  today.  I  had  ordered 
a  detachment  to  cross  at  Cochran's  Ferry.  It  was  deep  and  he  took 
them  over  naked;  nothing  but  guns,  cartridge  boxes,  and  hats. 
They  drove  the  enemy  out  of  their  rifle-pits,  captured  a  non-com- 
missioned officer  and  three  men  and  the  two  boats  on  the  other 
side.  They  would  have  got  more,  but  the  rebels  had  the  advant- 
age in  running  through  the  bushes  and  briars  with  their  clothes  on. 
It  was  certainly  one  of  the  funniest  sights  of  the  war,  and  a  very 
successful  raid  for  naked  men  to  make. 

Numerous  anecdotes  are  told  of  the  "  Parson's  "  personal 
prowess.  Hon.  S.  M.  Arnell,  late  Congressman  from  Middle 
Tennessee  and  a  friend  of  Brownlow,  relates : 

Some  irate  individual  of  Falstaffian  courage,  filled  with  the  sour 
wine  of  State  rights  and  secession,  had  busied  himself  in  abusing 
Brownlow  on  the  streets  and  elsewhere.  At  length  he  was  served 
up  in  the  Whig  on  live  coals.  This  bombastes  furioso  proceeded 
to  a  store  in  the  town  to  buy  a  cowhide.  One  was  shown  to  him, 
but  he  objected  to  it,  saying: 

"  It  might  be  large  enough  for  use  on  a  mule  or  a  horse,  but  I 
want  a  still  larger  one.  I  am  going  to  use  it  on  Brownlow." 

The  merchant  said  to  him  quietly: 

"  It  is  the  largest  one  we  have  in  the  store;  but  I  would  advise 
you  not  to  use  it  in  the  manner  proposed." 

"  Why  not?"  he  said  snappishly.     "  Is  he  a  fighting  character?" 

"  No,"  responded  the  merchant;  "among  his  neighbors  he  has 
the  reputation  of  being  a  very  quiet,  peaceable  man;  but  I  know 
that  he  will  not  submit  to  a  cowhiding." 

"  Well,"  said  the  snorting  warrior,  "  he  will  have  to  stand  it  this 
time,  for  I  am  going  to  administer  it." 

So  he  started  off  in  the  direction  of  Brownlow's  printing  office. 


IOO  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

There  he  was  told  that  the  editor  had  gone  to  the  river  to  look 
after  some  lumber.  He  swaggered  on  in  hot  pursuit.  Brownlow 
observed  his  coming.  When  the  wordy  duel  began,  Brownlow 
kept  backing  until  he  reached  the  water's  edge,  in  which  he  had 
observed  a  long-handled  mallet,  such  as  lumbermen  use.  When 
the  first  stroke  of  the  cowhide  came  down,  he  instantly  seized  the 
mallet  and  struck  the  assailant  apparently  lifeless  at  his  feet.  Feel- 
ing that  he  had  repelled  the  insult,  he  did  not  strike  a  second  blow. 
Some  one  passing  by  ran  to  the  spot,  picked  up  the  apparently  life- 
less body,  threw  water  into  his  face,  and  revived  him  sufficiently 
to  place  him  in  a  sitting  position  against  a  log.  ,  At  length,  looking 
down  on  his  bloody  garments,  then  directly  into  the  face  of  his 
opponent,  who  still  remained,  he  blurted  out: 

"  Well,  you  are  a pretty  preacher!" 

"At  any  rate,"  responded  Brownlow,  "lam  pretty  successful. 
It  has  not  taken  me  long  to  bring  one  mourner  to  the  bench." 

This  prayer  was  kept  standing  in  the  Wtiig  until  it  was  sup- 
pressed by  the  Confederate  authorities : 

Almighty  God,  our  Heavenly  Father,  in  whose  hands  are  the 
hearts  of  men  and  the  issues  of  time  and  eternity,  not  mixed  up 
with  Locofocoism  nor  rendered  offensive  in  Thy  sight  by  being  iden- 
tified with  men  of  corrupt  minds,  evil  designs,  and  damnable  pur- 
poses, such  as  are  seeking  to  upturn  the  best  Government  on  earth, 
Thou  hast  graciously  promised  to  hear  the  prayers  of  those  who  in 
an  humble  spirit  and  with  true  faith — such  as  no  secessionist  can 
bring  into  exercise — call  upon  Thee.  Be  pleased,  we  beseech  Thee, 
favorably  to  look  upon  and  bless  the  Union  men  of  this  Common- 
wealth and  sustain  them  in  their  praiseworthy  efforts  to  perpetuate 
this  Government  and,  under  it,  the  institutions  of  our  holy  religion. 
Possess  their  minds  with  the  spirit  of  true  patriotism,  enlightened 
wisdom  and  of  persevering  hostility  toward  those  traitors,  political 
gamblers,  and  selfish  demagogues  who  are  seeking  to  build  up  a 
miserable  Southern  Confederacy,  and  under  it  to  inaugurate  a  new 
reading  of  the  Ten  Commandments,  so  as  to  teach  that  the  chief 
end  of  man  is  nigger.  In  these  days  of  trouble  and  perplexity,  give 
the  common  people  grace  to  perceive  the  right  path,  which,  Thou 
knowest,  leads  from  the  camps  of  Southern  madcaps  and  Northern 
copperheads,  and  enable  them  steadfastly  to  walk  therein.  So 
strengthen  the  common  masses,  O  Lord,  and  so  direct  them  that, 
they  being  hindered  neither  by  the  fear  of  fire-eaters  nor  by  the 


BROWNLOW.  101 

love  of  the  corrupt  men  in  power,  nor  by  bribery,  nor  by  any  over- 
charge of  mean  whisky,  nor  by  any  other  Democratic  passion,  but 
being  mindful  of  Thy  constant  superintendence,  of  the  awful  maj- 
esty of  Thy  righteousness,  of  Thy  hatred  of  Democracy  and  its 
profligate  leaders,  and  of  the  strict  account  they  must  hereafter 
give  to  Thee,  they  may,  in  counsel,  word,  and  deed,  aim  supremely 
at  the  fulfillment  of  their  duty,  which  is  to  talk,  vote,  and  pray 
against  the  wicked  leaders  and  ungodly  advocates  of  secession. 
Grant  that  those  of  Thy  professed  ministers  who  are  mixed  up  with 
with  modern  Democracy  and  have  become  so  hardened  in  sin  as  to 
openly  advocate  the  vile  delusion  may  speedily  abandon  their  un- 
ministerial  ways  or  go  over  to  the  cause  of  the  devil;  that  their 
positions  may  at  least  be  unequivocal,  and  that  they  may  thereby 
advance  the  welfare  of  the  country!  And  grant  that  these  fire-eaters 
may  soon  run  their  race;  that  the  course  of  this  world  may  be  so 
peaceably  ordered  by  Thy  superintendence  that  Thy  church  and 
Thy  whole  people,  irrespective  of  sects,  may  joyfully  serve  Thee, 
in  all  good  conscience  and  godly  quietness,  through  Jesus  Christ, 
our  Lord.  Amen! 

A  gentleman  in  Arkansas  wrote  to  the  "  Parson  "  and  wished 
to  know  when  he  would  join  the  Democratic  party. 

The  following  letter  and  reply  will,  no  doubt,  enlighten  the 
reader,  as  it  did  Mr.  Clark  : 

CAMDEN,  ARK.,y««^3o,  1860. 
W.  G.  BROWNLOW. 

DEAR  SIR:  I  have  learned  with  pleasure,  upon  what  I  consider 
reliable  authority,  that  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  join  the 
Democratic  party  and  in  the  future  act  with  us  for  the  benefit  of  the 
country.  When  will  you  come  out  and  announce  it?  It  will  have 
a  good  effect  in  the  present  election  if  you  will  make  it  known  over 
your  own  signature. 

Hoping  to  hear  from  you,  I  am  very  truly,  yours, 

JORDAN  CLARK. 

THE  REPLY. 

KNOXVILLE,  TENN.,  July  6,  1860. 
Mr.  JORDAN  CLARK. 

DEAR  SIR:  I  have  your  letter  of  June  30,  and  I  hasten  to  let  you 
know  the  precise  time  when  I  expect  to  come  out  and  formally 
announce  that  I  have  joined  the  Democratic  party.  When  the  sun 


IO2  JEWELS   OF   MEMORY. 

shines  at  midnight  and  the  moon  at  midday;  when  man  forgets  to 
be  selfish  or  Democrats  lose  their  inclination  to  steal;  when  nature 
stops  her  onward  march  to  rest,  or  all  the  water  courses  in  America 
flow  up  stream;  when  flowers  lose  their  odor  and  trees  shed  no 
leaves;  when  birds  talk  and  beasts  of  burden  laugh;  when  damned 
spirits  swap  hell  for  Heaven  with  the  angels  of  light  and  pay  them 
the  boot  in  mean  whisky;  when  impossibilities  are  in  fashion  and 
no  proposition  is  too  absurd  to  be  believed — then  you  may  credit 
the  report  that  I  have  joined  the  Democratic  party. 

I  join  the  Democrats !  Never;  so  long  as  there  are  sects  in 
churches,  weeds  in  gardens,  fleas  in  hog  pens,  dirt  in  victuals,  dis- 
putes in  families,  wars  with  nations,  water  in  the  ocean,  bad  men 
in  America,  or  base  women  in  France.  No,  Jordan  Clark,  you  may 
hope,  you  may  congratulate,  you  may  reason,  you  may  sneer,  but 
that  cannot  be.  The  thrones  of  the  Old  World,  the  courts  of  the 
universe,  the  governments  of  men,  may  all  fall  and  crumble  into 
ruin;  the  New  World  may  commit  the  national  suicide  of  dissolv- 
ing this  Union,  but  all  this  and  more  must  occur  before  I  join  the 
Democracy. 

I  join  the  Democrats!  Jordan  Clark,  you  know  not  what  you 
say.  When  I  join  Democracy,  the  Pope  of  Rome  will  join  the 
Methodist  Church.  When  Jordan  Clark,  of  Arkansas,  is  president 
of  the  Republic  of  Great  Britain,  by  the  universal  suffrage  of  a  con- 
tented people;  when  Queen  Victoria  consents  to  be  divorced  from 
Prince  Albert  by  a  county  court  in  Kansas;  when  Congress  obliges 
by  law  James  Buchanan  to  marry  an  European  princess;  when  the 
Pope  leases  the  Capitol  at  Washington  for  his  city  residence;  when 
Alexander  of  Russia  and  Napoleon  of  France  are  elected  Senators 
in  Congress  from  New  Mexico;  when  good  men  cease  to  go  to 
Heaven  or  bad  men  to  hell;  when  this  world  is  turned  upside  down; 
when  proof  is  afforded,  clear  and  unquestionable,  that  there  is  no 
God;  when  men  turn  to  ants,  and  ants  to  elephants — then  I  will 
change  my  political  faith  and  come  out  on  the  side  of  Democracy! 

Supposing  that  this  full  and  frank  letter  will  enable  you  to  fix 
upon  the  period  when  1  will  come  out  a  full-grown  Democrat,  and 
requesting  you  to  communicate  the  same  to  all  whom  it  may  con- 
cern in  Arkansas,  I  am,  yours  truly, 

W.  G.  BROWNLOW. 

The  following  address,  written  to  his  countrymen  under  the 
shadow  of  the  scaffold  while  in  the  Knoxville  jail,  is  unparalleled, 


BROWNLOW.  103 

save  by  the  speech  of  Robert  Emmet  before  his  sentence  of 
death  by  the  minion  of  a  tyrant : 

FELLOW-COUNTRYMEN  :  I  have  often  addressed  many  of  you 
upon  different  topics,  but  never  under  circumstances  like  those 
which  now  surround  me,  as  I  feel  that  I  am  speaking  for  the  last 
time.  I  suppose  I  have  been  sentenced  to  hang  by  a  court-martial 
sitting  in  this  city;  I  say  I  suppose  so,  for  I  have  never  had  any- 
trial,  or  even  a  notice  of  a  trial  being  in  progress.  It  is  alike  a 
matter  of  indifference  whether  I  was  tried  by  that  court-martial  in 
my  absence  and  in  the  absence  of  witnesses  and  counsel,  or 
whether  I  had  been  present;  the  result  would  have  been  death. 
Justice  at  the  hands  of  such  unmitigated  scoundrels  and  ruffians  is 
the  last  thing  I  would  expect.  Indeed,  there  is  more  glory  in  being 
put  to  death  by  such  men  than  in  being  acquitted,  after  going 
through  the  forms  of  trial. 

Fellow-countrymen,  I  am  shortly  to  be  executed — not  for  any 
crime,  but  for  my  devotion  to  my  country,  her  laws  and  Constitu- 
tion. I  die  for  refusing  to  espouse  the  cause  of  this  wicked  rebel- 
lion; and  I  glory  in  it,  strange  as  you  may  think  it.  I  could  have 
lived,  if  I  had  taken  an  oath  of  allegiance  to  this  so-called  Confed- 
eracy. Rather  than  stultify  myself  and  disgrace  my  family  by  such 
an  oath,  I  agree  to  die.  I  never  could  sanction  this  so-called  gov- 
ernment, and  I  trust  that  no  child  of  mine  will  ever  do  it.  *  *  * 
I  have  a  word  to  say  as  to  my  family.  I  want  the  minds  of  my  wife 
and  children  impressed  with  what  is  true — that  they  are  not  dis- 
graced, but  honored  by  my  death.  Let  me  be  shrouded  in  the 
sacred  folds  of  the  star-spangled  banner;  and  let  my  children's  chil- 
dren know  that  the  last  words  I  uttered  on  earth  were — 
"  Forever  float  that  standard  sheet! 

Where  breathes  the  foe,  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 
And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us!" 


CHAPTER  XII. 


FATHER  RYAN  AND  HENRY  STANTON. 
TWO   SOUTHERN    POETS. 

REV.  ABRAM  J.  RYAN,  the  poet  priest  of  the  South,  was  a 
remarkable  genius  in  the  way  of  alliterative  lines  and  poetic 
periods.  He  was  born  in  Norfolk,  Va.,  studied  for  the  priest- 
hood, and  lived  for  many  years  in  Mobile,  Ala.  When  the 
civil  war  broke  out  he  threw  his  fortunes  with  the  Confederacy 
and  remained  as  a  chaplain  to  the  close  of  the  conflict,  minis- 
tering alike  to  friend  and  foe  on  the  bloody  battlefields  of  the 
rebellion. 

In  the  winter  of  1868  I  met  the  illustrious  prelate  and  poet  at 
Barnum's  Hotel,  in  Baltimore,  after  one  of  his  lectures  in  the 
Monumental  City. 

He  possessed  a  fine  form,  round,  broad  head,  long,  dark  hair, 
and  large  bluish  gray  eyes,  and  a  countenance  as  open  and  de- 
voted as  the  dawn.  Benevolence  shone  in  every  lineament  of 
his  full  face,  yet  at  intervals  a  melancholy  shade  o'erhung  his 
brow. 

In  company  with  a  few  of  his  friends  we  adjourned  to  a  pri- 
vate parlor  and  had  a  social  seance  that  lasted  until  the  clock 
in  the  tower  struck  the  midnight  hour.  His  two  friends  had 
served  with  him  during  the  war,  and  of  course  many  fond  recol- 
lections were  called  to  mind ;  and,  while  I  served  and  bled  on 
the  battlefield  for  "  Uncle  Sam,"  it  put  no  damper  on  the  talk 
of  these  Southern  warriors. 

The  ease  with  which  Father  Ryan  received  and  entertained 
me  may  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  he  and  my  uncle, 
Father  John  Joyce,  of  Maysville,  Ky.,  were  very  intimate  friends 
for  many  years. 
(104) 


RYAN   AND   STANTON.  105 

We  requested  the  genial  and  generous  priest  to  recite  to  us 
some  of  his  noted  productions,  and  without  hesitation  he  deliv 
ered — 

THE   CONQUERED    BANNER. 

» 

"  Furl  that  banner,  for  'tis  weary, 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary — 
Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  love  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it; 
Furl  it,  hide  it,  let  it  rest. 

"  Take  the  banner  down!  'tis  tattered; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 
Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh!  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it, 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it; 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 
Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

"  Furl  that  banner,  furl  it  sadly! 
Once  ten  thousand  hailed  it  gladly 
And  ten  thousand  wildly,  madly, 
Swore  it  should  forever  wave, 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 
O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave. 

<(  Furl  it,  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 
Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low; 
And  that  banner — it  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 
Of  its  people  and  their  woe. 

"  For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it! 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it! 


IO6  JEWELS   OF   MEMORY. 

Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it! 
But,  oh!  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
We  who  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

"  Furl  that  banner;  true  'tis  gory; 
Yet  it's  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 
Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust; 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages — 
Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must! 

"  Furl  that  banner,  softly,  slowly! 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy — 
For  it  droops  above  their  head — 
Touch  it  not— unfurl  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever — 
For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead!" 


HENRY  T.  STANTON  is  the  son  of  Hon.  Richard  Stanton,  of 
Maysville,  Ky.,  who  was  a  distinguished  lawyer  and  a  member 
of  Congress  before  the  late  civil  war. 

When  a  boy,  attending  school  at  my  uncle's  cathedral,  I 
remember  the  embryo  poet  in  connection  with  some  of  my 
playmates,  who  were  of  the  Pierce,  Pointz,  Goddard,  and  Arm- 
stong  families. 

More  than  thirty  years  from  school  days  had  elapsed  in  1886, 
when  I  made  a  lecture  tour  through  Kentucky,  taking  in  Owings- 
ville,  Mount  Sterling,  Winchester,  Carlisle,  Paris,  Lexington, 
Frankfort,  and  Louisville.  While  staying  at  the  Capital  Hotel, 
at  Frankfort,  I  learned  through  Gen.  Dexter  Keogh  that  the 
poet  Stanton  was  connected  with  the  superintendent  of  public 
instructions  and  had  an  office  in  the  Capitol  building.  We  called 
on  the  jolly,  round,  and  genial  genius  and  spent  a  pleasant  hour 
discoursing  about  old  times  at  Maysville,  and  naturally  drifted 
into  literary  topics.  I  referred  to  the  poet's  books  and  praised 
in  no  unmeasured  terms  his  celebrated  poem,  "  The  Moneyless 
Man,"  and  requested  him  to  recite  it.  He  repeated  it  as  follows 


RYAN   AND    ST ANTON.  1 07 

in  a  very  impressive  manner ;  and  I  must  say,  right  here,  that 
I  fail  to  find  in  all  human  literature  a  more  incisive,  truthful, 
pathetic,  and  philosophic  poem : 

"  Is  there  no  place  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
Where  charity  dwelleth,  where  virtue  has  birth, 
Where  bosoms  in  mercy  and  kindness  will  heave, 
Where  the  poor  and  the  wretched  shall  ask  and  receive? 
Is  there  no  place  at  all  where  a  knock  from  the  poor 
Will  bring  a  kind  angel  to  open  the  door? 
Ah!  search  the  wide  world  wherever  you  can, 
There's  no  open  door  for  a  moneyless  man. 

"  Go  look  in  yon  hall,  where  the  chandelier's  light 
Drives  off  with  its  splendor  the  darkness  of  night, 
Where  the  rich  hanging  velvet  in  shadowy  fold 
Sweeps  gracefully  down  with  its  trimmings  of  gold. 
And  the  mirrors  of  silver  take  up  and  renew 
In  long  lighted  vistas  the  wildering  view  ! 
Go  there  at  the  banquet  and  find  if  you  can 
A  welcoming  smile  for  a  moneyless  man. 

"  Go  look  in  yon  church  of  the  cloud-reaching  spire, 
Which  gives  to  the  sun  his  same  look  of  red  fire, 
Where  the  arches  and  columns  are  gorgeous  within, 
And  the  walls  seem  as  pure  as  a  soul  without  sin; 
Walk  down  the  long  isle;  see  the  rich  and  the  great 
In  the  pomp  and  the  pride  of  their  worldly  estate; 
Walk  down  in  your  patches  and  find,  if  you  can, 
Who  opens  a  pew  to  a  moneyless  man. 

"  Go  look  in  the  banks,  where  Mammon  has  told 
His  hundreds  and  thousands  in  silver  and  gold; 
Where  safe  from  the  hands  of  the  starving  and  poor 
Lies  pile  upon  pile  of  the  glittering  ore. 
Walk  up  to  the  counter;  ah!  there  you  may  "stay 
Till  your  limbs  grow  old,  till  your  hairs  grow  gray; 
And  you'll  find  at  the  banks  not  one  of  the  clan 
With  money  to  loan  to  a  moneyless  man. 

"  Go  look  at  yon  judge  in  his  dark  flowing  gown, 
With  the  scales  wherein  law  weigheth  equity  down; 
Where  he  frowns  on  the  weak  and  smiles  on  the  strong, 


IO8  JEWELS   OF   MEMORY. 

And  punishes  right  while  he  justifies  wrong; 
Where  juries  their  lips  to  the  Bible  have  laid 
To  render  a  verdict  they've  already  made — 
Go  there  in  the.  court-room  and  find,  if  you  can, 
Any  law  for  the  cause  of  a  moneyless  man. 

"  Then  go  to  your  hovel — no  raven  has  fed 
The  wife  who  has  suffered  too  long  for  her  bread; 
Kneel  down  by  her  pallet  and  kiss  the  death  frost 
From  the  lips  of  the  angel  your  poverty  lost; 
Then  turn  in  your  agony  upward  to  God, 
And  bless,  while  it  smites  you,  the  chastening  rod, 
And  you'll  find  at  the  end  of  your  life's  little  span — 
There's  a  welcome  above  for  the  moneyless  man !  " 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


JOHN  C.  BRECKINRIDGE. 

JOHN  CABELL  BRECKINRIDGE  was  born  near  Lexington,. 
Ky.,  on  the  2ist  of  January,  1821.  His  ancestors  were  from 
Virginia,  and  his  grandfather  was  Attorney- General  under  the 
administration  of  President  Jefferson,  and  afterwards  a  United 
States  Senator  from  the  State  of  Kentucky.  Breckinridge 
received  a  classical  education  at  Center  College,  Danville,  and 
studied  law  at  Transylvania  University,  Lexington. 

He  practiced  his  profession  successfully  for  years  before  the 
Mexican  war,  and  participated  in  that  conflict  toward  its  close 
as  major  of  the  Third  Kentucky  Infantry  Volunteers.  On  his 
return  from  the  Army  he  was  elected  to  the  State  legislature  and 
afterward  nominated  for  Congress,  defeating  by  a  narrow  ma- 
jority the  celebrated  Leslie  Combs,  boy  captain  of  the  war  of 
1812.  He  next  defeated  Governor  Letcher,  riding  triumph- 
antly over  every  political  competitor,  the  young  Democracy 
of  his  district  rallying  their  forces  against  the  best  blood  of  the 
old  Whigs,  who  had  been  so  successful  under  the  leadership  of 
Henry  Clay. 

Breckinridge  was  about  six  feet  one,  muscular  form,  straight 
as  an  arrow,  high  round  forehead,  bluish  gray  eyes,  firm  lips 
and  chin,  and  a  sonorous  musical  voice  that  sent  its  ringing  tones 
to  the  outer  edge  of  an  audience.  The  rising  and  falling  inflec- 
tions of  his  voice,  where  anger  or  pathos  was  intended,  combined 
with  magnetic  gesticulation,  acted  on  the  listeners  like  some 
spiritual  spell,  swaying  the  mind  and  even  body  with  the  wand 
of  a  master  of  universal  eloquence. 

A  few  years  after  the  Mexican  war  the  State  of  Kentucky 

(109) 


HO  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

voted  an  appropriation  of  several  thousand  dollars  to  exhume 
and  bring  back  the  bodies  of  her  heroic  sons  who  fell  on  the 
plains  and  mountains  of  Mexico.  A  magnificent  marble  shaft, 
fifty  feet  high,  resting  on  a  broad  pedestal,  with  the  names  of 
the  soldiers  and  officers  inscribed  thereon,  was  in  due  time  un- 
veiled at  the  romantic  cemetery  in  Frankfort,  the  capital  of  the 
State. 

John  C.  Breckinridge  was  selected  to  deliver  the  eulogium 
over  the  remains  of  his  dead  comrades.  With  words  of  burn- 
ing eloquence  and  mournful  memories  he  inspired  the  patriotism 
of  the  assembled  multitude,  and  those  who  heard  his  grand  ora- 
tion will  never  forget  its  lofty  periods  and  sententious  philosophy. 

Theodore  O'Harra  was  selected  to  deliver  the  poem,  "  The 
Bivouac  of  the  Dead,"  one  of  the  finest  tributes  in  English  lit- 
erature to  the  memory  of  dead  soldiers — a  classic  thought  that 
will  shine  down  the  ages  and  thrill  the  hearts  of  mankind  with 
patriotic  veneration  for  those  who  fight  and  fall  for  home  and 
country.  These  lines  will  be  immortal : 

"  Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead, 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave! 
No  impious  footsteps  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone, 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  year  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell; 
Nor  wreck  nor  change  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Can  dim  one  ray  of  holy  light 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb!" 

On  the  4th  of  July,  1886,  I  visited  the  Frankfort  Cemetery  in 
company  with  General  Dexter  Keogh  and  pondered  at  cele- 


BRECKINRIDGE.  Ill 

brated  tombs  around  the  great  monument,  such  as  Daniel 
Boone,  Colonels  McKee  and  Clay,  and  the  Celtic  poet,  O'Harra. 
I  penciled  these  lines  to  the  latter's  memory  : 

T  stood  at  the  grave  of  O'Harra, 
And  plucked  a  sweet  clover  in  bloom; 

Sent  a  sigh  to  the  soul  of  the  poet, 
And  wept  over  Memory's  tomb. 

I  heard  in  the  voice  of  the  forest 
The  songs  that  the  poets  would  sing, 

And  caught  every  tone  of  his  lyre, 
Like  the  whirr  of  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

Yet  sadly  I  sighed  for  O'Harra, 

And  knelt  at  the  shrine  of  his  fame, 
And  longed  for  the  holy  communion 

That  circled  the  sound  of  his  name! 

In  the  halls  of  Congress  Breckinridge  took  the  stand  of  a 
leader  at  once,  although  barely  of  legal  age.  His  affability, 
generosity,  and  manly  sentiments  endeared  him  even  to  his 
opponents,  and  while  his  Democracy  was  unquestioned  he  never 
hit  the  enemy  below  the  belt  or  shot  the  poisoned  arrows  of 
spite.  What  he  said  and  did  was  above  board,  and  while  the 
petty  politicians  of  his  party  might  strike  with  the  dagger  of  an 
assassin  he  wielded  the  claymore  of  conscience  and  conviction. 

Breckinridge  was  a  generous  and  lavish  entertainer  of  friends 
and  the  public.  He  was  a  particular  favorite  of  the  ladies.  His 
manly  form,  bright  eye,  and  eloquent  tongue  fascinated  all  who 
met  him,  and  had  his  lot  been  cast  about  the  waters  of  the 
Golden  Horn  he  might  have  been  a  Grand  Vizier  and  led  a 
corps  of  Oriental  beauties  in  his  royal  train ! 

On  the  death  of  Henry  Clay  at  the  National  Hotel,  Wash- 
ington, fn  June,  1852,  Breckinridge  announced  the  sad  event  to 
his  compeers  in  Congress.  Although  many  eulogies  were  de- 
livered in  the  Senate  and  House  by  noted  Whigs  and  Demo- 
crats, there  were  none  that  struck  a  loftier  flight  than  that  of  the 
youg  Mirabeau  from  the  Lexington  district  in  memory  of  the 


112  JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 

sage  of  Ashland.  This  tribute  to  the  memory  of  the  great  Clay 
might  be  truthfully  uttered  over  the  remains  of  Breckinridge 
himself : 

In  him  intellect,  person,  eloquence,  and  courage  united  to  form 
a  character  fitted  to  command.  He  fired  with  his  own  enthusiasm 
and  controlled  by  his  amazing  will  individuals  and  masses.  No 
reverse  could  crush  his  spirit,  nor  defeat  reduce  him  to  despair. 

And  to  cap  the  climax  of  the  eulogium  the  orator,  like  an 
an  eagle,  soars  thusly  into  the  Alpine  crags  of  thought : 

The  glory  of  his  great  actions  shed  a  mellow  luster  on  his  declin- 
ing years,  and,  to  fill  the  measure  of  his  fame,  his  countrymen, 
weaving  for  him  the  laurel  wreath,  with  common  hands  bind  it 
about  his  venerable  brows  and  send  him  crowned  to  history. 

Breckinridge,  like  a  well-rooted  white  ash  of  his  native  State, 
continued  to  grow  in  political  power,  and  was  nominated  and 
elected  Vice  President  of  the  United  States  in  conjunction  with 
President  Buchanan.  As  presiding  officer  of  the  Senate  he 
gave  the  greatest  satisfaction  to  both  parties  and  held  the  scales 
of  justice  with  an  unbiased  hand. 

The  Presidential  campaign  of  1860  found  him  the  champion 
of  his  party,  carrying  the  laurels  away  from  the  "  Little  Giant " 
Douglass  in  the  Charleston  Convention,  where  Democracy  broke 
in  twain  and  made  the  election  of  Abraham  Lincoln  certain — 
another  case  of  a  house  divided  against  itself,  and  the  usual  result 
of  failure. 

The  winter  and  spring  of  1860  and  1861  found  the  Congress 
of  the  United  States  and  the  whole  country  in  the  seething 
throes  of  impulsive  rebellion.  State  after  State  in  the  South 
passed  ordinances  of  secession,  withdrawing  their  allegiance 
from  the  Union,  and  finally  elected  Jefferson  Davis  and  Mr. 
Alex.  Stephens  executive  officers  of  the  new  Confederacy.  Sec- 
tions and  platoons  of  Southern  Senators  and  Representatives 
withdrew  from  their  seats  in  Congress,  after  a  futile  attempt  to 
convince  the  North  of  the  justice  of  their  cause.  Officers  of  the 
regular  Army  and  Navy,  imitating  the  examples  of  Generals 


.BRECKINRIDGE.  113 

Lee  and  Twiggs  and  Commodore  Buchanan  and  Captain 
Semmes,  severed  their  connection  with  the  Government  and 
rushed  into  the  wild  vortex  of  rebellion.  Senator  John  J.  Crit- 
tenden,  from  Kentucky,  and  a  large  number  of  his  compeers 
offered  a  compromise,  but  to  no  purpose,  and  soon  the  abortive 
neutrality  of  Kentucky  was  swept  aside,  when  citizens  enlisted 
directly  for  the  Union  or  Confederacy.  Breckinridge  remained 
about  Washington  as  long  as  he  could,  but  soon  Powell  and 
himself  saw  that  action  was  imperatively  necessary,  and  they 
returned  to  Kentucky  in  the  spring  of  1861. 

Lincoln  was  now  at  the  national  helm,  and  poor  old  Buchanan 
had  gone  to  grass  in  the  Keystone  State,  like  another  broken 
Wolsey,  who  "fell  like  Lucifer,  never  to  hope  again"  from  the 
public,  his  master. 

The  summer  and  fall  of  1861  found  Kentucky  a  camping 
ground  of  war,  with  its  citizens  divided  against  each  other  to 
the  death,  brother  against  brother  and  father  against  son — the 
terrible  situation  of  civil  war.  Gens.  Humphrey  Marshall  and 
"  Cerro  Cordo"  Williams  had  established  a  Confederate  camp 
at  Prestonsburgh,  in  the  mountains  near  the  Virginia  line,  and 
Gen.  William  Nelson  had  established  a  Union  camp  on  the 
Kentucky  River,  near  Nicholas ville,  and  "  Camp  Dick  Robin- 
son," near  Danville,  where  the  cavalry  and  infantry  for  the  Gov- 
ernment could  organize  for  fight.  Gen.  Simon  Boliver  Buck- 
ner  also  established  camps  for  Confederates  at  Bowling  Green 
and  Russell  ville.  A  Union  camp  was  established  at  the  Olym- 
pian Springs,  in  Bath  County,  where  the  Twenty-fourth  Ken- 
tucky was  organized  under  the  command  of  Col.  L.  B.  Grigsby 
and  Major  J.  S.  Hurt,  who  afterward  commanded  the  regiment 
to  the  close  of  the  rebellion. 

Matters  were  getting  very  hot  as  the  summer  of  1861  pro- 
ceeded, and  Breckinridge  knew  it  was  time  to  leave  his  State 
and  enlist  for  the  Confederacy,  most  of  his  political  confreres 
having  already  gone  over  the  mountains  to  join  their  friends  in 
Virginia.  Like  Lee,  his  heart  was  never  in  favor  of  breaking 


114  JEWELS   OF   MEMORY. 

up  the  Union,  but  past  personal  and  political  associations  drew 
him  like  a  magnet  into  all  the  future  hardships  and  failures  of 
the  civil  war  and  kept  him  there  to  the  end  as  General  and  Sec- 
retary of  War,  but,  like  Bolingbroke,  he  was  finally  compelled 
to  wander  for  many  years  as  an  exile  in  foreign  lands. 

His  escape  with  four  companions  after  the  fall  of  the  Confed- 
eracy, in  April,  1865,  through  the  forests  of  Carolina  and  Georgia, 
the  rivers  and  everglades  of  Florida,  and  200  miles  in  an  open 
boat  across  the  stormy  Gulf  of  Mexico  to  Cuba,  reads  more 
like  a  Viking  romance  than  a  reality. 

The  last  epeech  made  by  Breckinridge  on  his  way  to  Virginia 
to  join  the  Confederacy  was  delivered  at  Mount  Sterling,  Ky. 
People  from  the  surrounding  counties  came  to  hear  what  the 
champion  of  the  Southern  cause  might  say.  He  spoke  in  the 
court-house  for  more  than  two  hours  to  a  large  and  sympathetic 
audience.  About  the  close  of  his  remarks  I  elbowed  my  way 
through  the  crowd  to  hear  the  orator,  not  that  I  sympathized 
with  the  meeting,  but  to  listen  to  a  famous  man.  His  perora- 
tion was  a  flash  of  impassioned  eloquence  and  made  the  deep- 
est impression  on  the  great  mass  meeting.  It  was  indelibly  im- 
pressed on  my  mind,  and  was  uttered  in  about  these  words  : 

And  now,  Kentuckians,  I  appeal  to  you  to  stand  by  your  State 
and  your  Southern  brothers,  who  have  taken  up  the  gauge  of  battle 
to  hurl  back  the  Goths  and  Vandals  of  the  North,  who  are  now 
marching  down  to  desolate  our  sacred  soil  and  murder  our  people 
in  the  name  of  liberty.  Do  not  be  deceived  that  this  war  will  be  a 
holiday  affair,  or  that  the  enemy  will  falter  until  their  last  man  and 
dollar  are  thrown  into  the  vortex  of  this  civil  conflict.  Be  not  de- 
luded that  one  Southern  gentleman  can  whip  five  Yankees.  I 
tell  you  now  that  each  one  of  Lincoln's  soldiers  will  be  a  match  for 
any  of  our  men,  and  that  man  is  a  fool  who  underrates  the  power 
of  the  North  and  its  unlimited  resources.  Yet,  with  right  on 
our  side,  in  defense  of  our  property  and  people,  and  the  god  of 
battles  smiling  on  the  cause  of  the  just,  I  have  an  abiding  faith  that 
we  shall  achieve  our  independence  and  cut  loose  from  the  Abolition 
conclave  of  the  North,  who  are  determined  to  free  our  slaves  and 
make  them  the  equal  of  their  masters.  Nature  and  her  laws  never 


BRECKINRIDGE.  115 

made  the  black  man  the  equal  of  the  white,  and  all  the  power  of 
our  enemies,  now  or  hereafter,  shall  never  make  us  consent  to  the 
outrageous  and  unnatural  proposition. 

Kentucky  has  never  flinched  on  the  field  of  battle.  From  the 
early  pioneer  days  of  the  red  savage  at  Fort  Bryan  and  Blue  Lick 
to  the  snowy  fields  of  the  River  Raisin  in  Canada,  the  cotton  bags 
at  New  Orleans,  the  waters  of  Tippecanoe,  the  everglades  of  Flor- 
ida, the  plains  of  Buena  Vista  on  to  the  halls  of  the  Montezumas, 
the  bones  of  our  fearless  and  valiant  people  lie  bleaching  as  a  grand 
testimonial  to  their  bravery  and  patriotism.  I  implore  you,  then, 
my  beloved  Kentuckians,  to  rouse  up  your  slumbering  energies, 
shake  up  your  lion  hearts,  and  come  to  the  rescue  of  your  native 
land. 

In  the  summer  of  1872  I  spent  ten  days  at  the  West  End 
Hotel,  at  Long  Branch,  with  my  family.  General  Breckinridge 
happened  to  be  staying  at  the  same  hotel,  enjoying  the  bathing, 
driving,  racing,  and  social  cheer  that  clustered  around  that  noted 
watering  place.  He  had  but  recently  returned  from  exile,  and 
after  a  separation  of  eleven  years  we  renewed  the  introduction 
of  Col.  Thomas  Johnson,  of  Mount  Sterling.  We  naturally 
gravitated  together,  for  it  is  a  well-known  fact  that,  while  Ken- 
tuckians are  eminently  hospitable  and  friendly  to  strangers,  there 
is  a  clannishness  and  State  pride  among  themselves  that  no 
enmity  can  blighten  and  no  sorrow  or  defeat  chill  or  destroy. 
The  land  of  fair  women,  fast  horses,  brave  men,  and  pure  whisky 
challenges  mankind  for  its  match,  and  so  long  as  its  limestone 
formation  remains  and  its  everlasting  springs  run  to  the  sea  the 
Blue  Grass  State  will  be  found  at  the  front  with  its  generous 
heart  and  hand  held  out  to  all  the  world. 

The  General,  myself,  and  family  became  very  intimate,  and 
with  bathing,  driving,  dining,  and  attending  the  summer  races 
at  Monmouth  Park,  our  time  was  spent  in  a  round  of  profitable 
pleasure.  He  was  courted  on  all  sides,  and  whenever  he  ap- 
peared on  the  porches,  balconies,  clubs,  or  race  tracks  the 
world  seemed  to  recognize  an  illustrious  man.  Evening  after 
evening  we'd  chat  after  dinner,  or  walk  over  to  "  Daily's  "  or 
"  Chamberlain's  "  clubs  to  while  away  a  few  hours  in  meeting 


Il6  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

old  friends  or  taking  a  turn  at  the  wheel  of  fortune  to  pay  for 
the  fine  bird  suppers  of  these  noted  entertainers. 

One  morning  the  General  asked  me  to  walk  over  to  Grant's 
cottage,  only  a  few  blocks  away,  saying  that  he  had  never  met 
the  President.  At  the  time  I  occupied  a  public  office  under 
General  Grant  and  was  on  friendly  terms  with  him.  On  our 
route  I  called  at  the  cottage  of  Gen.  O.  E.  Babcock  and  asked 
him  to  accompany  us  to  see  the  President.  It  was  about  1 1 
o'clock  in  the  morning  when  we  were  ushered  in  through  the 
center  hall  and  out  on  the  broad  porch,  where  I  found  General 
Grant  alone,  smoking  and  reading  a  newspaper.  I  introduced 
him  to  General  Breckinridge,  when  we  were  asked  to  be  seated, 
and  for  an  hour  or  more  these  two  noted  men  talked  of  the  past 
and  current  events  as  if  nothing  had  disturbed  the  equanimity 
of  their  historic  recollections.  Before  taking  our  departure 
"Jerry"  brought  in  three  mint  julips,  and  Breckinridge  pro- 
posed a  toast  to  the  United  States,  which  we  drank  standing. 

The  night  beiore  I  left  Long  Branch  for  the  West  Breckin- 
ridge and  myself  had  been  over  at  Chamberlain's  until  after 
midnight.  On  our  return  to  the  hotel  he  asked  me  to  sit  down 
on  the  porch  and  look  upon  the  roaring  ocean  and  the  brilliant 
stars  that  glittered  in  their  eternal  realm.  His  heart  was  seem- 
ingly surcharged  with  the  memories  of  vanished  years,  for  he 
spoke  pathetically  and  eloquently  for  more  than  an  hour.  I, 
too,  referred  to  the  past  and  particularly  to  his  speech  at  Mount 
Sterling,  concluding  by  asking  him  how  he  really  felt  as  to  the 
result  of  the  war.  "Ah,"  said  he,  "Joyce,  it  is  all  right  and 
far  better  that  we  still  live  as  one  people  than  be  torn  into  frag- 
ments by  the  minions  of  princes,  kings,  and  emperors.  Many 
a  lonely  hour  I  have  spent  in  midnight  moments  on  the  streets 
of  London  and  Paris  awaiting  the  time  that  I  could  once  again 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  the  flag  of  my  fathers, 
and  all  I  now  wish  is  to  sleep  forever  beneath  its  God-given 
folds." 

His  wish  has  been  granted.     For  many  years  the  suns  of 


BRECKINRIDGE.  1 17 

summer  and  the  snows  of  winter  have  enwrapped  his  sacred 
dust  at  Lexington,  Ky.,  under  the  shadow  of  the  magnificent 
monument  erected  to  the  memory  of  his  friend,  Henry  Clay; 
and  his  own  heroic  statue  stands  in  front  of  the  court  house 
that  once  echoed  to  his  eloquent  periods  in  behalf  of  liberty  ajid 
justice. 

"  Green  be  the  turf  above  thee, 
Friend  of  my  better  days; 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise!" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


GEN.  NATHANIEL  BEDFORD  FORREST. 

THE  eagle  of  the  air,  the  tiger  of  the  land,  and  the  shark  of 
the  sea  are  by  nature  made  for  combat  and  are  instruments  of 
destruction  in  the  hands  of  that  Mysterious  Power  that  rules 
the  globe  and  all  the  unknown  worlds  beyond  the  sun  and  stars. 

So  are  some  men  created  natural  warriors  for  the  destruction 
of  their  fellows,  like  Alexander  the  Great,  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
"  Stonewall "  Jackson,  Phil.  Sheridan,  and  Forrest,  the  slave 
trader.  Yet  Alexander  was  trained  for  war  under  the  eye  of 
his  illustrious  father,  Philip  of  Macedon.  Napoleon  was  schooled 
in  the  Military  Institute  of  France,  while  Forrest,  one  of  the 
greatest  cavalry  officers  of  the  late  Confederacy,  was  reared  on 
a  farm  with  an  axe,  a  plough,  and  a  horse  as  training  instruments 
of  his  military  glory  and  received  only  the  bare  rudiments  of  a 
country  education. 

Forrest  was  a  magnetic  man,  standing  stalwart  and  erect,  six 
feet  one  inch,  broad  shouldered,  long  arms,  high  round  fore- 
head, dark  gray  eyes,  a  prominent  nose,  emphatic  jaw,  com- 
pressed lips  and  a  mustache,  setting  off  a  face  that  said  to  all 
the  world,  "  Out  of  my  way,  I'm  coming !  " 

His  step  was  .firm,  action  impulsive,  voice  sonorous,  and, 
taken  all  in  all,  there  was  not  a  soldier  of  the  Confederacy  that 
acted  with  more  celerity  or  effective  force  from  the  i4th  of 
June,  1 86 1,  when  he  became  a  private  at  Memphis,  to  the  gth  of 
June,  1865,  at  Gainesville,  Ala.,  where  he  surrendered  as  Lieu- 
tenant General  to  the  United  States  authorities. 

To  determine  with  Forrest  was  to  act,  and  the  flash  of  his 
saber  at  the  head  of  his  column,  charging  the  cavalry  or  infantry 
(118) 


FORREST.  119 

of  the  enemy,  inspired  his  troops  with  the  sunlight  of  victory, 
and  they  dashed  into  battle  like  the  audacious  warriors  of  Na- 
poleon on  the  field  of  Austerlitz. 

Forrest  was  born  at  Chapel  Hill,  Bedford  County,  Tenn.,  on 
the  i3th  of  July,  1821.  His  paternal  ancestors  came  from  Eng- 
land and  Scotland,  while  his  maternal  were  of  Irish  blood. 

When  sixteen  years  of  age  his  father  died,  leaving  a  widow 
and  ten  children,  our  subject  being  the  eldest,  who  at  once  took 
charge  of  a  farm  in  Mississippi  and  assisted  his  plucky  mother 
to  rear  the  weak  brood  that  looked  to  them  for  support.  Work 
was  so  imperative  that  young  Forrest  had  but  little  chance  for 
an  education,  attending  for  a  few  winter  months  the  log  school- 
houses  of  his  rural  section,  where  the  teachers  knew  little  more 
than  their  pupils. 

Country  sports,  such  as  dances,  barbecues,  horse  races,  and 
sometimes  feud  fights  were  all  the  recreations  that  Nathan  in- 
dulged in,  yet  whenever  he  appeared  in  a  fight  or  a  horse  race 
he  invariably  came  out  victorious. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-five  Forrest  married  Mary  Ann  Mont- 
gomery, a  direct  descendant  of  the  gallant  Irish  general  who 
fell  on  the  heights  of  Quebec  in  December,  1775. 

While  living  at  Hernando,  Miss.,  in  March,  1845,  doing  a 
general  trading  business,  he  was  attacked  on  the  public  square 
by  four  planters  for  some  quarrel  that  he  had  assumed  for  an 
uncle.  Thirteen  shots  were  exchanged.  Forrest  wounded 
three  of  his  assailants  and  drove  the  other  from  the  field.  He 
moved  to  Memphis  in  1852,  and  began  trading  in  real  estate 
and  continued  cotton  planting  and  slave  trading.  About  this 
time  he  was  blown  up  in  a  steamboat,  but  providentially  escaped, 
while  sixty  other  pasengers  were  lost. 

The  most  heroic  thing  ever  done  by  Forrest  was  his  rescue 
of  young  Abel,  who  had  killed  a  friend  in  a  family  quarrel,  from 
the  hands  of  a  Memphis  mob  of  3,000  infuriated  men,  who 
dragged  the  boy  from  jail,  swung  a  rope  around  his  neck,  and 
were  on  the  point  of  hoisting  him  over  a  beam  when  this  intrepid 


120  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

citizen  rushed  through  the  frantic  crowd,  drew  his  Bowie  knife, 
cut  the  rope,  and  hurried  the  intended  victim  back  to  jail,  where 
the  mob  followed  and  still  demanded  blood. 

Forrest  jumped  upon  the  jail  steps,  drew  a  revolver,  and  swore 
he  would  kill  the  first  man  that  attempted  to  enter,  and  then  and 
there  that  lone  hero  with  truth  and  law  on  his  side  conquered  a 
howling,  desperate  mob  !  There  was  nothing  in  his  subsequent 
career  that  equaled  this  for  desperate,  sublime  courage — such  as 
Winkleried  displayed  when  he  threw  himself  on  the  Austrian 
spears  or  Leonidas  blocking  the  pass  of  Thermopylae  with  his 
his  immortal  three  hundred. 

I  was  introduced  to  General  Forrest  and  Col.  Roger  Hanson 
at  Mount  Sterling,  Ky.,  in  the  summer  of  1861,  where  he  came 
to  secretly  recruit  for  the  Southern  Army  and  procure  arms. 
He  was  a  splendid  specimen  of  manhood,  and  no  wonder  some 
of  the  chivalric  Kentucky  bloods  followed  him  back  to  Ten- 
nessee, where  he  led  them  and  thousands  of  others  in  many  a 
hard-fought  battle. 

Forrest  was  in  the  trap  of  Fort  Donelson  the  night  before 
Buckner  surrendered  to  the  unconquerable  Grant,  but  before 
daylight  he  escaped  with  his  command  through  the  Federal 
lines  like  a  hawk  evading  the  swoop  of  an  eagle. 

For  more  than  two  years  after  this  event  he  participated  in  all 
the  great  battles  of  the  West  and  South,  charging  with  reckless- 
ness at  Shiloh,  dashing  and  ubiquitous  at  Chickamauga,  desper- 
ate and  successful  at  Murfreesboro  and  Franklin,  until  his  final 
surrender  as  Lieutenant  General  of  the  vanquished  Confederacy. 
His  successful  dash  into  Memphis  in  the  face  of  Federal  power, 
his  capture  of  gunboats  with  a  cavalry  force,  and  his  destruction 
of  military  stores  are  familiar  to  the  historian.  The  only  blot 
upon  his  escutcheon  as  a  soldier  is  the  massacre  of  the  blacks  at 
Fort  Pillow,  which  has  been  laid  directly  at  the  door  of  General 
Chalmers,  Forrest's  subordinate,  although  denied  by  that  officer. 

One  great  secret  of  General  Forrest's  success  can  be  traced 
to  the  keen  knowledge  he  had  of  men,  for  in  the  selection  of  his 


FORREST.  121 

subordinates,  such  as  Wheeler,  Pegram,  Chalmers,  Bell,  Buford, 
Rucker,  Lyon,  Jackson,  Roddy,  Wirt,  Adams,  and  the  dashing 
Gen.  Frank  Armstrong,  he  displayed  great  military  genius, 
securing  men  who  had  their  heart  in  their  work  and  were  willing 
at  a  moment's  notice,  in  sunshine  or  storm,  to  die  for  their  cause 
and  commander.  The  immediate  staff  of  General  Forrest  were 
also  as  loyal  as  death  and  never  hesitated  to  carry  an  order  to 
the  most  perilous  point  of  battle.  Such  is  the  stuff  that  real 
soldiers  are  made  of,  whether  fighting  in  the  Macedonian  pha- 
lanx with  Alexander,  in  the  legions  of  Caesar,  the  squares  of 
Napoleon,  the  columns  of  Skobeleff,  or  the  corps  of  Grant  and 
Lee.  Long  live  the  real  heroic  soldier,  who  fights  and  dies  for 
what  he  believes  the  right  in  any  land  or  clime  !  They  have 
ever  been  monumented  in  marble  and  bronze  in  all  ages,  and 
shall  be  while  mankind  honors  truth  and  valor. 

I  met  Forrest  a  short  time  before  he  died,  at  the  Overton 
House,  in  Memphis,  and  talked  over  the  late  war,  reminding 
him  of  our  first  meeting  at  Mount  Sterling.  He  spoke  with  a 
measured,  melancholy  tone,  and  asked  me  during  the  conversa- 
tion what  I  thought  his  most  successful  military  achievement. 

I  told  him  frankly  that  his  military  order  disbanding  his  sol- 
diers, the  last  to  surrender,  at  Gainesville  on  the  gth  of  May, 
a  month  after  Lee's  surrender,  was  the  best  act  of  his  life  !  He 
smiled,  a  far-off  smile,  and  said  "All  right." 

The  following  sentences  from  his  farewell  order  will  show  the 
truth  and  courage  of  the  man :  "  Soldiers,  that  we  are  beaten 
is  a  self-evident  fact,  and  any  further  resistance  on  our  part 
would  be  justly  regarded  as  the  very  height  of  folly  and  rash- 
ness. *  *  *  The  terms  of  our  surrender  manifest  a  spirit  of 
magnanimity  and  liberality  on  the  part  of  the  Federal  authorities, 
which  should  be  met  on  our  part  by  a  faithful  compliance  with 
all  the  stipulations  and  conditions  therein  expressed !  *  *  * 
You  have  been  good  soldiers ;  you  can  be  good  citizens.  Obey 
the  laws,  preserve  your  honor,  and  the  Government  to  which 
you  have  surrendered  can  afford  to  be,  and  will  be  magnanimous!" 


122  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

These  are  noble  words,  from  an  honest  and  heroic  foe,  and 
they  should  be  memorized  and  pasted  in  the  sombrero  of  some 
of  the  soldiers  and  citizens  who  followed  in  the  wake  of  the 
"  lost  cause." 

I  fought  for  more  than  three  years  against  General  Forrest 
and  his  courageous  comrades,  and  under  like  circumstance 
would  gladly  do  so  again,  but  I  can  say  truthfully  that  I  never 
met  a  genuine,  blood-battlefield  Confederate  soldier  that  was 
sorry  for  the  death  of  slavery  or  the  re- establishment  of  our 
God-given  Union ! 

Over  the  ashes  of  Forrest 

Let  flowers  of  freshness  wave; 
He  was  faithful,  bold,  and  honest — 

Generous,  manly,  and  brave! 


CHAPTER    XV. 


"CORPORAL"  TANNER. 

I  FIRST  met  James  Tanner  ten  years  ago  at  a  banquet  given 
by  the  Knights  of  St.  Patrick  at  the  Academy  of  Music  in 
Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 

Thomas  Kinsella,  the  editor  of  the  Eagle,  was  the  president 
of  the  association  and  one  of  the  most  popular  men  in  the  City 
of  Churches.  Some  300  guests  sat  down  at  the  feast.  Among 
the  set  speakers  for  the  evening  were  Mayor  Lowe,  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  Stewart  L.  Woodford,  "  Corporal "  Tanner,  myself, 
and  others. 

Mayor  Lowe's  speech  to  the  "  City  of  Brooklyn  "  was  pointed, 
concise,  and  intelligent.  Beecher's  speech  on  "  Religion  "  was 
faultless,  philosophic,  and  grand.  General  Woodford,  to  the 
"  President  of  the  United  States,"  spoke  with  intense  eloquence. 
"  Corporal  "  Tanner  launched  away  in  sonorous  style  in  eulo- 
gistic terms  of  the  "  Union  Soldiers  "  and  received  spontaneous 
applause,  while  I  wound  up  the  formal  toasts  in  a  compliment 
to  "  Woman." 

I  was  much  impressed  with  the  "  Corporal,"  having  heard  of 
him  so  often  in  connection  with  Grand  Army  encampments 
and  as  the  constant  and  never-failing  friend  of  a  soldier. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen,  in  1861,  he  enlisted  from  his  father's 
farm,  in  Schoharie  County,  in  the  Eighty-seventh  New  York 
Regiment.  He  served  under  the  heroic  Phil.  Kearney,  and  at 
the  second  battle  of  Bull  Run  had  both  of  his  feet  blown  off,  and 
from  that  day  to  this,  more  than  thirty -two  years,  has  suffered 
untold  torture,  uncomplaining  as  an  ancient  philosopher. 

For  many  years  he  was  collector  of  taxes  for  the  city  of 
Brooklyn,  and  gave  universal  satisfaction  to  his  fellow-citizens. 

(123) 


124  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

He  has  also  lectured  on  several  occasions  for  Grand  Army  and 
social  circles,  and  has  never  failed  to  interest  his  audience  or 
•elicit  their  generous  applause. 

"  Corporal  "  Tanner  stands  about  five  feet  ten,  stalwart  in  body, 
with  a  large  round  head,  set  firmly  on  square  shoulders,  and 
•crowned  with  a  suit  of  stubborn  gray  hair.  His  eyes  are  of  a 
bluish  gray,  prominent  nose,  firm  lips  surmounted  with  a  brist- 
ling mustache,  emphatic  chin,  and  a  full,  open  countenance  that 
would  attract  any  beholder. 

In  the  Harrison  campaign  in  Indiana  he  did  more  to  carry 
the  State  for  his  party  chief  than  any  man  in  that  Common- 
wealth, for  wherever  he  was  advertised  to  speak  the  old  soldiers 
turned  out  en  masse  to  hear  the  noted  corporal. 

For  this  service  the  leaders  of  the  Republican  party  insisted 
that  President  Harrison  should  appoint  him  Pension  Commis- 
sioner, which  was  finally  done.  His  love  for  the  old  soldiers, 
whose  claims  had  lain  for  so  long  in  the  pigeon-holes  of  the 
Department,  from  two  to  twenty-five  years,  soon  showed  itself 
in  a  speedy  settlement  of  thousands  of  meritorious  cases.  But 
his  liberal  and  generous  construction  of  the  pension  laws  in  re- 
rating  and  increasing  their  allowance  soon  brought  down  upon 
his  devoted  head  the  criticism  of  former  foes,  political  cowards 
and  bloated  bondholders,  men  who  took  advantage  of  the  Gov- 
ernment's necessity  in  its  financial  strait  while  "  Corporal  "  Tan- 
ner and  his  comrades  rushed  to  the  battlefield  and  lost  their 
health,  blood,  and  life  for  the  preservation  of  this  God-given 
Union. 

President  Harrison  listened  to  the  howl  and  growl  of  the 
rabble,  while  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior  and  his  assistant  lent 
aid  to  the  cry,  and  finally  forced  the  "  Corporal  "  to  resign. 

Since  then  he  has  been  engaged  as  pension  attorney  in  pros- 
•ecuting  the  claims  of  old  soldiers,  and  has  been  very  successful 
in  his  avocation. 

I  have  never  met  a  more  generous  or  benevolent  man  than 
""  Corporal "  Tanner,  and  if  his  power  and  pocket  were  as  big 


TANNER.  125 

as  his  brave  heart  every  soldier  who  fought  for  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  would  receive  at  least  a  dollar  a  day  to  help  him  over 
the  corduroy  roads  of  old  age  and  pathetic  'poverty. 

The  "  Corporal "  is  direct  in  all  his  movements.  He  is  a  man 
with  a  forgiving  spirit  and  without  malice.  For  those  who  once 
wore  the  "  gray  "  he  now  shows  the  kindest  regard.  Not  long 
ago,  Gen.  John  B.  Gordon,  a  gallant  Confederate  soldier  from 
Georgia,  delivered  his  celebrated  lecture  on  "  The  Last  Days  of 
the  Confederacy  "  for  the  benefit  of  the  disabled  soldiers  of  the 
Union  Veteran  Legion  and  the  Confederate  home  in  Richmond. 
"Corporal"  Tanner,  as  the  commander  of  the  Legion,  intro- 
duced the  gallant  Confederate  to  10,000  people  assembled  in 
Convention  Hall,  at  Washington,  and  Gen.  John  M.  Schofield,. 
the  Commander  of  the  United  States  Army,  presided  with  his 
usual  dignity  and  intelligence. 

This  auspicious  event,  a  union  meeting  of  the  "  blue  "  and  the 
"gray"  was  mainly  brought  about  by  "Corporal"  Tanner,, 
whose  magnanimity  to  a  fallen  foe  is  as  conspicuous  as  his 
bravery  was  against  a  standing  one.  When  he  passes  away,, 
beyond  the  mountain  ranges  of  this  life,  the  soldiers  of  the  Re- 
public will  lose  one  of  their  best  friends,  and  his  family  and 
neighbors  a  generous  father  and  faithful  man.  Tanner  never 
had  time  enough  to  tell  a  lie  or  garnish  his  acts  with  the  parsley 
of  hypocrisy,  and  his  whole  nature  pivots  on  "friendship," 
"  charity,"  and  "  loyalty  " — the  bed-rock  doctrine  of  the  Grand: 
Army  of  the  Republic. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


THE   NATIONAL  CAPITAL. 

THE  milestones  of  memory  clustering  around  the  National 
Capital  are  rich  with  historic  lore  and  refreshing  to  the  tourist 
from  every  land  and  clime. 

Stand  with  me  for  a  moment  at  the  Scott  statue,  on  the  heights 
of  the  National  Soldiers'  Home,  to  the  north  of  Washington,  as 
the  slanting  beams  of  evening  irradiate  the  scene.  Far  to  the 
right  and  west  the  rolling  hills  of  the  Old  Dominion  lift  their 
pine-clad  crests  over  the  troubled  waters  of  the  upper  Potomac, 
and  on  a  nearer  view  the  towers  and  turrets  of  the  Jesuit  Uni- 
versity shine  over  Georgetown  Heights  like  Alpine  sentinels 
guarding  the  vales  below.  The  forest  trees  of  Oak  Hill  and 
Arlington  nod  their  emerald  heads  to  the  view,  while  the  winds 
of  nature  sing  a  mournful  requiem  over  the  citizen  soldiers  who 
have  gone  into  camp  on  the  upland  slopes  of  Omnipotence. 

Oak  Hill  contains  the  dust  of  many  illustrious  men.  Chase, 
Governor  and  Secretary  of  the  Treasury,  slept  there  until 
removed  to  Cincinnati ;  Stanton,  the  great  War  Secretary  and 
iron  arm  of  the  rebellion,  rests  under  a  tall  granite  shaft  that  is 
not  more  firm  or  compact  than  the  heroic  character  it  memorial- 
izes. Gen.  Reno,  who  fell  at  South  Mountain,  finds  peace  beneath 
a  broken  marble  column.  Captain  Morris,  of  Monitor,  Merri- 
mac,  and  Cumberland  memory,  mingles  herewith  Mother  Earth, 
and  as  long  as  the  waters  of  Hampton  Roads  shall  tumble  their 
white  caps  to  the  sea  his  heroic  and  patriotic  conduct  will  be 
cherished  by  a  grateful  country. 

Lorenzo  Dow,  the  great  apostle  of  temperance  and  revival 
religion,  is  covered  with  a  sandstone  slab,  grown  over  with  lichens 
and  creeping  grasses.  Bishop  Pinckney,  the  celebrated  Epis- 
(126) 


THE   NATIONAL    CAPITAL.  127 

copalian,  has  a  life-size  marble  statue  over  his  grave,  erected 
by  the  benevolence  of  W.  W.  Corcoran,  the  millionaire,  who 
sleeps  beneath  a  marble  pagoda  across  the  hill  from  his  sacer- 
dotal friend.  John  Howard  Payne,  author  of  "  Home,  Sweet 
Home,"  has  a  monument  and  marble  bust  to  glorify  his  dust  in 
death,  while  in  life  he  was  a  poor,  forlorn  wanderer,  often  with- 
out home,  food,  or  shelter. 

When  I  am  dead  Jet  no  vain  pomp  display 
A  surface  sorrow  o'er  my  pulseless  clay, 
But  all  the  dear  old  friends  I  loved  in  life 
May  shed  a  tear,  console  my  child  and  wife. 

When  I  am  dead  some  sage  for  self-renown 
May  urn  my  ashes  in  some  park  or  town, 
And  give  when  I  am  cold  and  lost  and  dead 
A  marble  shaft  where  once  I  needed  bread! 

I  could  not  help  quoting  these  few  lines  from  my  book, 
"  Peculiar  Poems,"  because  they  seem  to  be  so  true  about  the 
way  of  the  world.  Poets  have  been  particularly  unfortunate  in 
securing  plenty  and  pleasure  in  life,  yet  when  the  shadows  of 
death  and  time  have  enveloped  their  frail  forms,  monuments  in 
marble  and  bronze  lift  their  artistic  heads  to  tell  the  world  of 
the  fame  of  those  that  sleep  below.  Homer,  Dante,  Tasso, 
Otway,  Goldsmith,  Sheridan,  Burns,  Keats,  Edgar  Allan  Poe, 
and  Payne  might  rise  from  their  graves  today  and  view  with 
wonder  and  alarm  the  great  glory  they  secured  after  death  as 
a  contrast  to  the  neglect  and  poverty  they  endured  in  life. 

Many  great  and  good  soldiers  sleep  their  last  sleep  on  Arling- 
ton Heights,  that  we  see  in  the  glimmering  distance.  The  dash- 
ing Sheridan,  the  gallant  Crook,  the  great  Indian  fighter  Har- 
ney,  the  faithful  Quartermaster  General  Meigs,  the  Chief  of 
Artillery  Hunt,  the  Secretary  of  War  Belknap,  and  the  heroic 
Hazen,  Sturgis,  Ayers,  Baxter,  Crane,  and  the  illustrious 
Admiral  Porter,  with  a  gallant  crew  of  his  naval  subordinates, 
rest  under  the  shadows  of  those  grand  old  oaks. 

More  than  17,000  men  who  fought  for  the  perpetuity  of  the 


128  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

Union  slumber  in  the  field  of  eternal  silence  that  once  echoed 
to  the  footsteps  of  Gen.  Robert  E.  Lee  as  he  pondered  amid 
the  bowers  of  his  ancestral  home.  Just  outside  the  Government 
inclosure,  to  the  north  you  find  another  "  God's  acre  "  filled  with 
thousands  of  the  sons  of  the  South  who  fought  and  fell  for  what 
they,  no  doubt,  deemed  the  right. 

"  These  in  the  robings  of  glory 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 

In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet. 
Under  the  dust  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  blue; 

Under  the  willow,  the  gray." 

Lengthen  the  view  from  where  we  now  stand,  at  the  Soldiers' 
Home,  you  behold  fifteen  miles  away  the  hill  tops  of  Mount 
Vernon,  looming  up  in  the  fading  horizon,  and  nearer,  the  walls 
of  Fort  Washington  shining  in  the  distance;  the  spires  and 
smoke  of  Alexandria  rising  over  the  town  where  Jackson  shot 
Ellsworth  in  his  hotel,  and  where  Brownell  sent  a  bullet  through 
the  heart  of  the  rash  Virginian,  who  defied  a  whole  Govern- 
ment, and  flung  his  rebel  flag  to  the  breeze.  Letting  the  eye 
linger  along  the  banks  of  the  Potomac. you  behold  a  long,  dark 
line  spanning  its  flashing  waters,  and  you  may  see  and  hear  the 
rapid  railroad  trains  as  they  rumble  over  the  crumbling  timbers 
of  the  historic  Long  Bridge.  Could  this  bridge  talk,  what  a 
story  it  would  tell  of  the  hopes  and  fears  of  those  beaten  Union 
soldiers  who  crossed  its  piers  in  July,  1861,  while  the  echo  of 
cannon  from  Bull  Run  hastened  their  march  from  the  field  of 
battle  to  the  Capital  and  the  North. 

Bands  were  playing,  horses  neighing, 
Soldiers  straying,  mules  were  braying; 
Banners  flying,  women  crying; 
Hearts  were  sighing,  many  dying; 
Onward,  backward,  all  uproarious, 
The  gray  victorious,  the  blue  still  glorious; 


THE   NATIONAL    CAPITAL.  129 

The  field  was  won,  the  field  was  lost, 
Like  ocean  billows  torn  and  tossed, 
And  on  the  bloody  field  of  war 
Were  waves  of  dead,  a  giant  scar, 
And  mangled  bodies,  torn  and  pale, 
Like  forests  in  a  withering  gale. 

But,  while  the  Union  flag  went  down  in  the  gloom  of  defeat 
at  Bull  Run,  it  rose  triumphant  at  Gettysburg  and  Appomattox, 
and  today  the  men  who  fought  each  other  to  the  verge  of  death 
have  shaken  hands  over  the  bloody  chasm,  and  from  yonder 
shining  dome  that  tops  the  Capitol,  right  under  the  shadow  of 
the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  they  walk  arm  in  arm  to  irrigate  their 
anatomy  with  "  cold  tea  "  or  exhilarate  their  manhood  with  rare 
wines  and  terrapin  at  the  fine  dinners  of  the  Press,  Gridiron,  or 
Army  and  Navy  Clubs,  as  well  as  the  rare  viands  served  up  at 
the  Arlington,  Welcker's,  and  Chamberlin's.  Thus,  you  see, 
the  lamb  and  the  lion  can  lie  down  together  when  the  pasture  is 
large  enough  to  feed  them  both. 

In  these  glinting  remarks  we  must  not  forget  to  keep  the 
grand  panorama  of  Washington  in  view.  There  she  sits,  like 
an  Egyptian  Queen  surrounded  by  the  jewels  of  the  Orient. 
At  her  feet  flows  the  placid  Potomac,  winding  like  a  silver  ser- 
pent to  the  sea,  while  a  rim  of  broken,  emerald  hills  to  the  north 
sets  off  the  opal  and  ruby  colors  that  shine  from  the  private  and 
public  buildings  of  this  city  of  Magnificent  Distances. 

The  swelling  dome  of  the  Capitol,  the  great  marble  monu- 
mental pile,  555  feet  high,  erected  to  the  memory  of  the  Father 
of  his  Country,  and  the  War  Department  building,  are  the 
most  prominent  landmarks  that  meet  the  vision,  while  squares, 
parks,  circles,  angles,  and  long-shaded  avenues  fill  the  soul  of  the 
beholder  with  pleasure  and  pride  as  he  contemplates  the  possibil- 
ities of  Washington  a  thousand  years  henee,  when  the  bright  flag 
of  the  great  Republic  may  irradiate  the  pathway  of  mankind  and 
guarantee  universal  suffrage  and  home  rule  to  the  whole  world. 


JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

A  thousand  years,  my  own  Columbia, 
A  thousand  years  to  rule  the  right; 
A  thousand  years  of  law  and  order, 
A  thousand  years  of  mind  and  might. 

Poetry,  painting,  sculpture,  music,  and  science  cling  to  the 
skirts  of  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  and,  while  with  one  hand  she 
wields  the  sword  of  freedom,  she  may  trample  under  foot  the 
tottering  thrones  of  tyrants  and  smash  the  lazaroni  of  royalty, 
who  live  on  the  sweat,  the  tears,  and  the  blood  of  their  fellow  - 
men. 

This  Capital  is  the  home  of  progress  and  the  front-parlor 
compartments  of  70,000,000  of  free  people.  This  is  the  altar 
in  the  cathedral  of  the  continent,  around  which  kneel  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  Revolutionary  sires,  who  wrung  from  mon- 
archy the  God-given  principles  of  self-government.  Here  can 
be  found  men  and  women  from  every  State  in  the  Union  and 
lingering  travelers  from  every  land  under  the  sun,  all  mingling 
in  social  cheer  or  delivering  into  the  arts  and  sciences  which 
beautify  life  and  increase  the  sum  of  human  knowledge. 

In  the  last  twenty  years  untold  millions  of  dollars  have"  been 
invested  in  and  around  the  city  by  public  appropriations  or 
private  speculation.  Waste  lots  and  lands  that  a  few  years  since 
would  not  bring  10  cents  a  foot  cannot  now  be  bought  for  $10 
a  foot,  and  old  manor-houses  that  were  ruined  by  time  and  war 
have  been  rebuilt  or  torn  away  to  make  room  for  the  palatial 
mansions  of  rich  citizens  from  Boston,  Chicago,  St.  Louis,  Phil- 
adelphia, Pittsburg,  Cincinnati,  or  New  York.  And  still  the 
flood  of  capital,  talent,  and  power  rolls  through  our  thousand 
gates,  open  night  and  day  for  the  entrance  and  exit  of  mankind. 
The  walls  of  Babylon,  Thebes,  and  Rome  do  not  hedge  us  in, 
and  ancient  barriers  to  the  progress  of  man  do  not  lift  their  cold, 
stony  brows  to  beat  back  civilization. 

Many  statues  of  warriors  and  statesmen  decorate  the  parks 
and  circles  of  the  city,  and  in  a  few  years  the  number  of  illus- 
trious men  whose  forms  will  appear  in  marble  or  bronze  will 


THE   NATIONAL   CAPITAL.  131 

exceed  that  of  any  other  capital.  They  will  not  be  complete, 
however,  until  that  of  Alexander  Shepherd  is  erected  in  the 
most  conspicuous  spot  in  the  city,  for  it  was  through  his  bold 
and  far-seeing  genius  that  we  were  lifted  out  of  the  mud  and 
dust  of  slavery  and  placed  in  the  concrete  of  freedom  ! 

Aurora  rising  out  of  the  blue  Atlantic  in  her  golden  chariot 
smiles  on  this  Paris  of  America  as  with  rosy  fingers  she  scatters 
the  silver  dewdrops  of  life  and  wealth  along  national  pathways 
until  she  anchors  her  shining  car  beyond  the  golden  sands  of  the 

Pacific ! 

Age  after  age  will  sweep  its  course  away, 
The  works  of  man  will  crumble  and  decay, 
Yet  on  the  tide  of  time  from  sun  to  sun 
Shall  shine  the  glory  of  this  Washington; 
And  all  the  stars  that  in  their  orbits  roll, 
Around  the  rushing  world  from  pole  to  pole, 
Shall  keep  our  name  as  true  and  bright 
As  yonder  sparkling  jewels  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHILOH. 

THE  roar  of  the  wicked  gunboats,  Tyler  and  Lexington,  and 
the  rumble  of  field-pieces  broke  upon  our  ears  like  a  sad 
requiem  over  the  graves  of  buried  heroes.  Bomb,  bomb, 
thrumb,  thrumb,  sounded  the  music  of  our  march,  and  through 
that  long  Sunday  night  the  incessant  song  of  the  murderous 
gunboats  was  the  death-knell  of  many  a  son  of  the  South.  The 
flood-gates  of  Heaven  seemed  open  that  fearful  night,  and  the 
rain  came  down  on  the  wearied  trudging  soldiers  like  hail-stones. 

The  roads  were  worked  into  sticky  slush  by  the  artillery 
wagons,  and  the  weary  warriors  wound  along  amid  peals  of 
thunder  and  flashes  of  lightning,  looking  like  gnomes  from 
some  infernal  region.  It  was  a  hitch  and  a  halt,  a  push  and  a 
run,  a  rest  and  a  rout,  until  the  straggling  shanties  of  Savan- 
nah came  into  view  on  the  swollen  waters  of  the  Tennessee,  just 
as  the  gray  of  morning  dissipated  the  black  shadows  of  night 
and  brought  another  day  of  battle  and  blood. 

In  passing  through  the  streets  of  Savannah  down  to  the  trans- 
port steamer  that  was  to  take  us  to  the  battlefield,  six  miles 
above,  I  saw  for  the  first  time  wounded  soldiers  borne  on 
stretchers  from  the  bloody  work  at  the  front.  An  hour  before, 
the  proud  form  of  the  soldier  had  been  rushing  on  the  enemy 
with  the  spirit  of  a  lion ;  but  now  his  mangled  manhood  lay 
prostrate,  carried  to  the  rear  by  sorrowing  comrades,  never 
again,  perhaps,  to  mingle  his  voice  with  the  roar  of  battle,  sing 
love  songs  around  the  nightly  bivouac,  or  greet  the  loved  ones 
at  home. 

The  Twenty-fourth  Kentucky  was  immediately  pushed  aboard 
the  transport  steamer  Evansville,  and  at  once  proceeded  to  the 
(132) 


THE    BATTLE    OF    SHILOH.  133 

battlefield,  arriving  on  the  scene  of  slaughter  and  demoraliza- 
tion at  noon.  The  Fifty-seventh  Indiana  and  Twenty-fourth 
Kentucky  were  immediately  placed  in  line  of  battle  by  Col.  G. 
D.  Wagner,  commanding  the  Twenty-first  Brigade,  while  the 
Fifteenth  and  Fortieth  Indiana  supported  the  advancing  column. 
The  battle  was  raging,  and  the  enemy  was  making  a  last 
stand  on  the  rough  hills  behind  a  clump  of  water  oak ;  and 
thick  hickory  underbrush,  when  amid  shot,  shell,  and  deadly 
buck  and  ball,  Col.  Lewis  B.  Grigsby,  the  commander  of  the 
Twenty-fourth,  made  the  following  impromptu  speech  as  my 
regiment  rushed  to  battle  : 

Fellow-soldiers,  the  field  of  honor  is  before  you.  The  foe  is 
over  the  hill  waiting  your  salute.  Kentucky  looks  to  her  soldiers 
to  carry  the  flag  of  the  Union  to  victory.  Remember  that  you  are 
sons  of  the  heroic  men  who  fell  at  the  River  Raisin,  New  Orleans, 
and  on  the  bloody  plains  of  Buena  Vista.  Stand  by  your  colors  to 
the  last,  preferring  death  to  defeat.  Now,  at  the  enemy!  Forward, 
guide  right,  charge! 

The  Flily-seventh  Indiana  had  dashed  off  to  the  front  by  this 
time,  touching  on  the  left  of  Rosseau's  Brigade  of  Kentuckians, 
of  McCook's  Division ;  while  the  Twenty-fourth  aligned  on  the 
left  of  the  gallant  Indianians,  all  charging  right  into  the  retreat- 
ing forces  of  Van  Dorn  and  Breckinridge,  who  moved  with  a 
sullen  tread  from  their  victorious  ground  on  the  previous  day. 

About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  left  of  Shiloh  church,  and 
near  the  Corinth  road,  the  Twenty-fourth,  in  one  of  its  charges, 
captured  about  forty  prisoners  and  sent  them  to  the  rear. 
Among  the  prisoners  were  a  field  officer,  a  chaplain,  and  a  sur- 
geon named  Redwood,  of  an  Alabama  regiment. 

During  the  afternoon  the  closing  battle  scenes  shifted  with 
alternate  success  and  defeat,  the  enemy  contesting  every  inch 
of  ground.  But  the  army  of  General  Buell,  commanded  by 
Nelson,  McCook,  Crittenden,  and  Wood,  was  too  much  for  the 
heroic  warriors  of  Johnston  and  Beauregard.  About  4  o'clock 
the  enemy  was  in  full  retreat,  on  the  road  and  through  the 


134  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

interminable  forests  leading  to  Corinth.  Wood's  Division 
followed  the  retreating  army  about  five  miles  out  on  the  Corinth 
road,  and  successfully  repelled  several  cavalry  dashes  made  by 
General  Forrest;  although  in  one  instance  the  Confederate 
general  dashed  right  through  the  Seventy-seventh  Ohio  Infantry 
as  if  it  had  been  but  so  much  chaff,  scattering  the  blue-coats 
through  the  underbrush  and  tall  timbers. 

The  darkness  of  night  put  an  end  to  the  bloody  battle  ;  and, 
after  throwing  out  pickets  on  the  various  roads,  Wood's  division 
marched  back  to  the  main  body  of  the  army. 

The  armies  of  Grant  and  Buell  slept  upon  the  battlefield  that 
soaking  Monday  night.  No  effort  was  made  to  follow  the 
retreating  foe.  We  were  only  too  glad  to  rest  after  the  terrible 
two  days  of  blood  and  gather  up  the  remnant  of  our  broken 
forces. 

"  Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-clouds  had  lowered, 

And  the  sentinel  set  their  watch  in  the  sky; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered — 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die." 

Such  a  scene  of  havoc  and  desolation  as  the  field  of  Shiloh 
presented  I  never  witnessed  in  'the  marches  and  fights  of  after 
years.  Around  the  old  Shiloh  meeting-house  could  be  seen 
clumps  of  dead  soldiers,  scores  of  dead  horses,  broken  artillery 
caissons,  smashed  wagons,  tents  riddled  with  bullets,  trees  torn 
to  splinters,  underbrush  cut  down  by  the  murderous  Minnies, 
great  giant  oaks  blown  up  by  the  roots,  and  prostrate  like  the 
swollen  human  forms  that  festered  below ;  while  a  look  above 
presented  the  broken  arms  of  the  forest  as  they  moved  in  the 
chilling  night  winds  against  the  gloomy  outline  of  a  leaden  sky  ! 

The  rain  came  down  in  torrents,  the  mud  and  forest  slush 
being  almost  knee-deep.  During  the  night  I  was  detailed  to 
take  charge  of  the  prisoners  that  we  had  captured  in  the  after- 
noon. They  were  collected  in  a  group  under  the  dripping 
leaves  and  branches  of  a  spreading  oak.  The  night  was  chilly, 


THE    BATTLE    OF    SHILOH.  135 

the  soldiers  thin  clad,  and  the  demon  of  hunger  threatened  the 
weary  warriors.  In  the  race  of  Buell  to  the  battlefield,  com- 
missary and  regimental  wagons  had  been  left  behind,  and 
thousands  of  human  beings  were  without  shelter,  save  such 
temporary  covering  as  could  be  obtained  by  broken  branches, 
swamp  grass,  and  long  slabs  of  bark  peeled  from  surrounding 
trees. 

About  12  o'clock  Monday  night  I  was  taken  with  a  con- 
gestive chill  and  relieved  from  duty  by  Goodpaster,  my  com- 
panion lieutenant  of  Company  I.  In  searching  for  shelter  from 
the  drenching  rain  and  cutting  winds,  I  stumbled  into  a  tent 
that  had  been  riddled  by  bullets,  and  feeling  about  in  the  mid- 
night darkness,  found  some  sleeping  soldiers.  In  my  wild 
hunt  for  rest  I  sank  down  between  the  sleepers,  pulling  their 
rough  blankets  over  my  shivering  frame.  Weary,  cold,  and 
hungry,  I  soon  fell  into  a  deep  slumber,  and  on  the  airy  wings 
of  blissful  dreams,  was  wafted  away  over  hill,  river,  and  plain 
to  my  home  in  Kentucky.  I  sat  again  by  the  fireside  of  those 
I  loved,  and  basked  in  the  sunshine  of  bright  beauty.  How  my 
wild,  delirious  fancy  painted  happiness  in  the  beautiful  land  of 
slumber  and  imagination.  Angel  voices  lulled  me  to  repose, 
rare  viands  and  rich  food  haunted  my  hungry  eyes,  and  sweet 
music  cheered  my  sinking  soul.  The  chill  and  pain  of  the  mid- 
night hour  vanished  away,  the  cold  gray  shadows  of  morning 
brightened  the  dark  woods,  when  some  straggling  comrade 
roused  me  from  the  fantastic  flowers  and  melodies  of  dreamland. 
The  heart  would  fain  slumber  and  the  chill  of  the  body  beat  back 
the  sweet  voices  that  implored  me  to  linger  in  the  realm  of  fancy. 

"  '  Stay,  stay  with  us;  thou  art  weary  and  worn;' 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay; 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away." 

Sorrow  indeed  returned ;  for,  in  rousing  from  sleep,  I  dis- 
covered that  my  blanket  companions  were  dead,  having  been 
shot,  no  doubt,  that  terrible  Sunday  morning,  when  Sidney 


136  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

Johnston  and  his  dashing  heroes  rolled  over  the  Union  troops 
like  mad  waves  on  the  sea-shore.  At  the  door  of  the  Sibley 
tent  I  saw  dead  soldiers  scattered  about  like  huge  cord-wood 
sticks.  In  each  of  the  company  streets  tattered  tents,  camp 
kettles,  pans,  broken  guns,  torn  blankets,  empty  canteens,  hav- 
ersacks, and  knapsacks  lined  the  bloody  battle  ground.  The 
"  blue  "  and  "  gray  "  rested  side  by  side  in  eternal  sleep.  Many 
I  saw  were  grappled  in  death,  and  the  bright  bayonet  that  did 
the  desperate  work  was  clinched  in  the  hand  that  dealt  the  mur- 
derous blow. 

No  mind  can  conceive  or  pen  portray  the  startling  horrors 
of  Shiloh.  It  was,  for  the  number  engaged,  the  bloodiest  battle 
of  the  war,  and  the  very  pivot  of  the  victorious  Union.  Had 
Grant,  Buell,  and  Sherman  been  defeated  at  Shiloh  the  Federal 
forces  could  not  have  been  re-formed  for  battle  south  of  the 
Ohio  River;  and  Kentucky  and  Tennessee,  in  all  human  prob- 
ability, would  have  been  lost  to  the  Union. 

At  7  o'clock  on  the  6th  of  April,  1862,  the  division  of  Gen- 
eral Sherman  occupied  the  advanced  position  of  the  Union 
Army,  his  right  rest  on  the  Purdy  road,  near  Owl  Creek,  and 
his  left  stretching  in  front  and  beyond  Shiloh  church  on  the 
Corinth  road. 

The  division  of  Prentiss  was  on  the  left  of  Sherman,  and  Mc- 
Clernand  occupied  the  line  in  rear  of  Sherman,  while  Hurlbut 
and  Stuart  were  farther  to  the  left  rear,  near  the  Tennessee 
River,  leaving  Lew.  Wallace,  with  his  lost  division,  in  the  swamps 
of  Snake  Creek. 

General  Sherman's  division  stood  the  brunt  of  the  first  day's 
battle,  the  desperate  onslaught  of  Johnston  bearing  down  on  his 
left,  and  on  the  right  of  Prentiss,  with  the  weight  of  a  roaring 
flood,  compelling  the  first  line  to  fall  back  on  McClernand  for 
support,  which  was  given  promptly.  General  Prentiss  and  quite 
a  large  number  of  his  division  were  taken  prisoners  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  during  the  subsequent  fighting  his  command  was  but  a 
shattered  body  staggering  about  on  the  bloody  field. 


THE    BATTLE    OF   SHILOH.  137 

Night  found  the  Union  forces  badly  demoralized,  their  left 
resting  on  the  Tennessee  River,  having  been  driven  from  three 
battle-lines  during  the  day.  McClernand's  and  Sherman's 
divisions  still  occupied  the  ragged  front  of  battle,  while  the 
victorious  Confederates  feasted  on  the  provender  of  the  Fed- 
eral troops. 

During  Sunday  night  the  gunboats  Tyler  and  Lexington 
kept  up  a  periodical  fire  on  the  enemy,  throwing  shells  into 
the  ranks  of  the  victors.  Grant  and  Buell  had  a  consultation 
with  their  subordinates  on  Sunday  night,  wherein  it  was  deter- 
mined to  take  the  offensive  on  Monday,  and  retrieve  our  lost 
ground,  if  possible. 

Lew.  Wallace  occupied  the  extreme  right  of  the  Union  forces, 
with  Sherman,  McClernand,  Hurlbut,  McCook,  Wood,  Critten- 
den  and  Nelson  extending  for  two  miles  to  the  left,  making  a 
cordon  of  determined  bayonets  ready  to  pierce  the  enemy.  They 
moved  against  the  Confederate  forces  in  unexpected  strength 
early  Monday  morning ;  and,  while  varying  success  character- 
ized the  contending  armies  during  the  second  day  of  the  great 
battle,  4  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  found  the  rebel  warriors  in  full 
retreat,  and  the  Union  army  completely  victorious. 

I  am  satisfied  that  the  Army  of  the  Ohio,  commanded  by 
General  Buell,  turned  defeat  into  victory,  and  were  it  not  for 
the  timely  arrival  of  six  divisions,  the  brave  soldiers  of  Grant 
and  Sherman  would  have  been  driven  into  the  Tennessee  River 
or  captured  by  the  daring  soldiers  of  Johnston  and  Beauregard. 

General  Sherman,  in  his  Shiloh  report,  says  that  Rousseau's 
brigade  of  McCook's  division  advanced  beautifully,  deployed, 
and  entered  the  dreaded  wood,  where  a  few  moments  before 
Willich  suffered  defeat.  He  says :  "  I  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
well-ordered  and  compact  columns  of  General  Buell's  Kentucky 
forces,  whose  soldierly  movements  at  once  gave  confidence  to 
our  newer  and  less  disciplined  men." 

.    Whole  Union  regiments  from  Ohio,  Indiana,  Illinois,  Michi- 
gan, Missouri,  and  Kentucky  were  literally  used  up,  and  it  was 


138  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

days  and  weeks  after  the  battle  before  some  Ohio  regiments 
could  be  found,  to  form  a  nucleus  for  reorganization. 

Perhaps  it  has  never  occurred  to  the  peaceful  citizen  of  today 
how  much  he  is  indebted  to  Grant,  Sherman,  Meade,  Sheridan, 
Thomas,  McPherson,  Hancock,  and  other  gallant  commanders, 
for  the  blessings  that  came  with  the  salvation  of  the  Union  and 
the  starry  flag.  We  think  of  these  men,  little  realizing  that  to 
their  brain,  nerve,  dash,  and  valor  is  largely  due  the  establish- 
ment of  a  Union  without  a  slave  and  a  nation  without  a  peer. 
They  will  only  be  entirely  appreciated  after  their  death,  when 
their  scurrilous  detractors  are  rotting  in  unremembered  graves. 
Their  statues,  in  marble  and  bronze,  will  decorate  the  parks  of 
the  National  Capital,  telling  to  generations  yet  unborn  the  glow- 
ing history  of  their  heroic  actions  at  Donelson,  Shiloh,  Gettys- 
burg, Winchester,  Atlanta,  and  Appomattox. 

Our  forces  held  the  field  of  Shiloh,  but  that  was  all ;  and, 
while  the  enemy  leisurely  retreated  to  Corinth,  the  victorious 
army  showed  no  disposition  to  follow,  but  wallowed  along  like 
a  huge  anaconda  for  seven  weeks,  through  the  swamps  and 
and  forests  of  Tishimingo  County,  before  reaching  Corinth,  only 
thirty  miles  away.  General  Halleck  was  preparing  for  a  great 
battle  with  his  100,000  fresh  soldiers,  and  when  he  actually  got 
ready  to  strike  the  blow  against  Beauregard  on  the  3Oth  of 
May,  1862,  found  that  the  heroic  Confederate  had  evacuated 
Corinth  with  his  entire  army  two  days  before,  leaving  nothing 
to  our  grand  parade  General  but  long  lines  of  empty  breast- 
works, broken  camp  kettles,  and  a  few  ragged  prisoners ! 

It  was  laughable  to  see  the  preparations  General  Halleck 
made  for  the  great  impending  battle  which  was  to  come  off  at 
Corinth.  Rows  of  hospital  tents,  to  accommodate  a  thousand 
men,  were  erected  along  the  Purdy,  Farmington,  and  Corinth 
roads ;  nice  new  cots,  furnished  with  clean  linen  sheets  ;  rose 
blankets ;  variegated  quilts,  and  pillows  with  frilled  cases,  had 
been  sent  from  the  North  to  comfort  would-be  wounded  warriors. 

When  long  rifle-pits  were  dug  every  mile  or  so  through  the 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHILOH.  139 

woods  the  "boys  "  would  say  that  they  were  all  owing  to  the 
great  forethought  of  General  Halleck,  who  not  only  fixed  up 
beds  and  shelter  for  the  living,  but  provided  new-made  graves 
for  the  dead  !  The  old  General  did  everything  in  tip-top  style, 
according  to  his  "  elements  of  war,"  except — fighting  !  This 
necessary  element  of  war  seemed  to  be  a  secondary  considera- 
tion with  the  great  tactician.  Yet,  at  that  time  the  war  was 
young,  and  the  Generals  had  to  grow  to  the  idea  that  the  enemy 
had  to  be  conquered,  not  by  kindness,  but  by  killing. 

LOUISVILLE    EXPERIENCE. 

Many  funny  and  curious  scenes  transpired  about  the  camp, 
and  in  the  homes  of  the  rushing  city.  I  became  acquainted 
with  a  very  beautiful  Southern  belle,  whose  family  was  of  the 
best  blood  in  the  State.  She  had  two  brothers  in  the  Army — 
one  with  Morgan,  fighting  for  the  "  Stars  and  Bars,"  and  the 
other  with  Rosecrans,  fighting  for  the  "  Stars  and  Stripes."  The 
father  was  old,  and  bowed  down  with  grief  at  the  terrible  scenes 
transpiring  around  him,  while  the  mother's  mild  manner  sent  a 
glow  of  love  and  peace  through  the  household. 

A  social  party  was  given  at  the  mansion  one  evening,  and 
I  was  invited  to  attend.  On  my  arrival  I  found  a  large  number 
of  well-dressed  guests,  gray  colors  predominating,  I  being  the 
only  blue- uniformed  individual  present.  Dancing,  song,  and 
feasting  were  indulged  in  until  midnight,  when,  to  cap  the 
climax,  Miss  Ella  asked  the  privilege  of  singing  and  playing 
the  "  Bonnie  Blue  Flag."  As  the  tune  had  been  filched  from 
Yankeeland,  and  as  I  had  heard  "  Dixie,"  another  Yankee  air, 
played  in  the  heat  of  battle — and  more  particularly  as  I  was  not 
fighting  against  women  and  children — I  interposed  no  objection. 
The  beautiful  young  lady  threw  all  her  soul  into  the  so-called 
rebel  air,  and  out  in  the  midnight  silence  it  sounded  as  if  the 
belles  of  Richmond  were  in  chorus  with  the  whole  Confederacy. 
Great  applause  greeted  the  performance,  but  the  cheers  had  not 
died  away  when  a  provost-martial  with  a  squad  of  soldiers  broke 
in  upon  the  festivities  and  arrested  the  whole  party  for  treason- 


140  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

able  conduct.  Everybody  became  alarmed  at  the  predicament, 
the  proprietor  of  the  house  seeing  nothing  but  Camp  Chase  or 
Fort  Lafayette,  with  their  ponderous  jaws  ready  to  receive  him. 

In  this  emergency  I  replied  to  the  arrest  and  taunts  of  the 
bluff  captain,  saying  that  I  alone  was  responsible  for  the  sing- 
ing of  the  treasonable  song,  having  requested  the  young  lady 
to  render  the  air  for  the  social  pleasure  of  the  guests.  He  re- 
plied that  if  that  was  the  case  I  should  go  with  him  at  once  to 
headquarters,  where  my  conduct  would  be  reported  ;  and,  as  I 
took  the  responsibility  of  the  song,  I  should  suffer  whatever 
penalty  might  be  inflicted  by  the  Government. 

I  bade  the  host  and  hostess  good  night,  leaving  them  to  their 
liberty  and  cheer,  thus  sacrificing  myself  for  the  good  of  other 
mortals.  When  I  reached  the  commanding  officer,  who  had 
authority  and  common  sense,  I  explained  that  it  was  all  a  piece 
of  fun  and  pleasantry  and  a  magnanimous  thought  on  my  part 
to  gratify  an  enthusiastic  girl  who  desired  to  sing  a  few  notes  in 
honor  of  the  Southern  cause.  The  Confederacy  always  received 
my  blows  on  the  field  of  battle,  but  in  the  gloom  of  defeat  I 
extended  my  hand  and  the  generous  words  of  a  soldier  to  a 
fallen  foe.  I  was  not  in  favor  of  a  parlor  war,  only  striking  those 
with  arms  in  their  hands. 

The  next  day  I  called  at  the  mansion  and  relieved  the  anx- 
iety of  the  household  by  informing  them  that  the  commanding 
officer  of  Louisville  had  released  me  from  arrest,  while  the 
superserviceable  officer  received  no  encomiums  for  his  great 
energy  and  intense  loyalty  in  breaking  into  a  private  house  to 
disturb  innocent  festivities. 

A  few  nights  after  this  occurrence  I  stumbled  on  one  still 
more  ridiculous.  Captain  Gill,  Lieutenant  Mclntyre,  and  my- 
self had  been  at  the  Louisville  Theater  to  see  Maggie  Mitchell 
in  her  charming  play  of  "  Fanchon."  Before  returning  to  camp, 
after  the  close  of  the  performance,  I  proposed  that  we  go  to 
Walker's  restaurant  for  refreshments.  This  proposition  was 
readily  agreed  to,  and  without  delay  we  repaired  to  the  festive 


LOUISVILLE   EXPERIENCE.  141 

resort  and  ordered  a  fine  bird  supper.  The  small  rooms,  fitted 
for  four  persons,  were  well  patronized  that  night,  and  the  thin 
sheeting  partitions  could  not  shut  out  the  voices  or  words  of 
the  respective  occupants.  During  the  supper  a  friend  of  Mc- 
Intyre  joined  him — a  citizen  from  the  "  blue-grass  "  region — 
who  got  into  an  argument  with  "  Mac."  on  the  proprieties  of 
the  war. 

Champagne  went  down,  and  loud  words  quickly  came  up, 
until  at  last  Mclntyre  made  a  lunge  at  the  friend  of  his  youth, 
knocked  him  against  the  panels  of  the  small  room,  and  down 
with  a  crash  went  the  whole  side  on  the  elaborate  supper  of 
Maj.  Gen.  Gordon  Granger  and  his  staff  officers.  Excitement 
ran  high,  aad  Granger's  face  looked  like  a  thunder  cloud  that 
had  been  split  up  by  lightning.  He  knew  me,  but  did  not 
know  my  companions.  The  suppers  were  destroyed.  Mcln- 
tyre and  the  citizen  were  finally  separated,  the  lights  turned 
out,  and  we  were  ordered  to  our  camps  under  arrest,  to  report 
at  the  Gait  House  the  next  morning  at  10  o'clock. 

Granger  and  his  officers  were  very  jolly  that  night  before  we 
threw  down  the  side  of  the  stall  on  their  supper,  and  I  am  con- 
vinced that  our  superiors  were  as  much  influenced  by  fumes 
from  Bacchus  as  we  were. 

It  was  about  2  o'clock  when  we  got  into  the  street;  and 
while  we  had  been  peremptorily  ordered  to  camp,  three  miles 
away,  and  in  a  keen,  frosty  night,  I  proposed  that,  as  we  had 
to  report  to  Granger  at  10  o'clock  in  the  morning,  we  go  to  the 
hotel,  take  a  good  rest  and  breakfast,  and  face  the  military 
music  like  men,  which  proposition  was  adopted. 

Promptly  at  the  appointed  hour  we  put  in  an  appearance  at 
the  Gait  House.  Granger  was  not  yet  out  of  bed.  We  told 
his  orderly  our  mission,  and  asked  him  to  inform  the  General. 
While  waiting,  it  was  agreed  that  I  should  do  the  talking  and 
pleading,  and  that  "  the  boys  "  should  assent  to  every  excuse 
I  made  for  our  conduct  of  the  previous  night.  We  were  soon 
admitted,  and  found  Granger  sitting  up  in  bed  with  his  legs 


142  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

dangling  over  the  side.  We  saluted,  as  became  good,  respect- 
ful officers,  and  he  said :  "  Young  men,  you  were  drunk  last 
night.  I  am  ashamed  and  astonished  to  see  officers  of  the 
Army  conduct  themselves  in  such  a  disgraceful  manner." 

I  replied  that  we  never  drank,  and  before  we  left  home  we 
had  each  made  a  solemn  pledge  to  our  sweethearts  that  for  the 
period  of  three  years,  or  during  the  war,  we  would  not  taste, 
smell,  or  handle  ardent  spirits. 

Granger  looked  astonished,  and  asked  Gill  and  Mclntyre  if 
my  statement  was  true.  They  held  up  their  hands  in  earnest 
asseveration,  and  testified  firmly  to  the  truth  of  what  I  had 
uttered.  The  General  arose  immediately  from  the  bed,  pro- 
ceeded to  the  mantel-piece,  took  therefrom  a  half-filled  bottle 
of  Bourbon  whisky  and  glasses,  and  said :  "  Gentlemen,  you  are 
the  most  magnificent  liars  it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  behold. 
Your  coolness  and  audacity  deserve  a  reward,  and  I  shall  take 
it  as  a  great  favor  if  you  will  condescend  to  join  me  in  a  glass 
of  old  Bourbon." 

I  replied  that  his  request  was  equal  to  an  order ;  and,  as  we 
had  sworn  to  obey  all  orders  of  our  superior  officers,  the  pledge 
we  gave  our  sweethearts  must  give  way  to  the  rules  of  war ; 
and  however  reluctant  we  might  be  to  violate  the  obligations  of 
love,  we  could  not,  with  self-respect,  decline  to  comply  with  the 
promptings  of  patriotism  and  duty. 

We  parted  with  mutual  respect  for  each  other.  I  believe 
that  the  General  who  takes  a  social  glass  with  his  staff  is  no 
worse  than  the  soldier  who  empties  a  canteen  with  his  comrade 
on  the  hot  and  dusty  march.  I  shall  never  forget  the  Pick- 
wickian look  and  quizzical  smile  of  Granger  on  that  occasion. 
He  was  certainly  a  generous  character,  and  had  the  philosophy 
and  common  sense  not  to  rebuke  too  severely  the  conduct  in 
another  which  characterized  himself. 

"  The  hand  and  heart  will  show  the  noble  mind; 
A  fellow  feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


BURNSIDE  IN  EAST  TENNESSEE. 

IN  AUGUST,  1863,  the  Government  determined  to  break  one 
of  the  joints  of  the  backbone  of  the  Southern  Confederacy  by 
cutting  loose  from  its  base  line  in  Kentucky,  and  moving  by  the 
way  of  Chattanooga  and  over  the  Cumberland  Mountains  to 
Knoxville,  East  Tennessee,  where  a  grand  trunk  railroad  that 
supplied  men  and  material  to  the  enemy  might  be  cut,  and 
force  them  to  move  their  base  line  further  to  the  south  and  the 
sea. 

On  the  23d  of  August,  1863,  Gen.  Ambrose  E.  Burnside, 
commanding  the  Department  of  the  Ohio,  and  the  Ninth  Army 
Corps  crossed  the  Cumberland  River  at  the  Somerset  Ford 
with  cavalry,  infantry,  and  artillery,  amounting  to  about  25,000 
men.  It  was  a  bold  strike  to  rescue  East  Tennessee  from  the 
Confederate  foe.  Before  us  laid  a  wilderness  of  more  than  350 
miles,  with  its  mountain  steeps,  gorges,  and  streams. 

The  passage  of  the  Cumberland  at  Smith's  Ferry  was  a  very 
difficult  undertaking.  On  the  south  side  of  the  rapid  stream 
we  were  compelled  to  haul  up  the  wagons  and  artillery  with 
ropes  grasped  in  the  hands  of  a  thousand  men.  'When  the 
army  was  safely  camped  on  the  south  side  of  the  Cumberland 
we  rested  but  for  one  day,  and  then  began  a  weary  march 
through  an  unknown  country  that  had  been  occupied  by  guer- 
illa and  regular  troops  of  the  enemy  since  the  beginning  of 
hostilities.  A  trail  of  twelve  days  through  rugged  mountains 
lay  before  us  ere  we  could  tap  the  East  Tennessee  railroad,  near 
Knoxville,  and  sever  Confederate  communication  from  Rich- 
mond to  the  Southwest.  Our  wagon  trains  did  not  get  up  on 
the  night  of  the  23d  until  12  o'clock,  and  the  soldiers  had  to 

(143) 


144  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

camp  on  the  bare,  rocky  earth,  with  nothing  to  cover  them  but 
overhanging  branches,  and  no  light  to  show  them  to  dreamland 
but  the  twinkling  stars  peering  out  of  the  mysterious  depths  of 
the  upper  blue.  The  air  was  chilly  and  the  sparkling  jewels  of 
Heaven  shone  down  on  the  slumbering  camp  with  a  cold  gleam. 
Early  in  the  morning  twilight,  after  a  can  of  coffee,  some  raw 
bacon,  and  hard-tack,  the  whole  army  proceeded  on  a  rough 
march  to  a  small  town  named  Jacksburg,  traveling  over  narrow, 
rocky  roads,  that  almost  defied  the  passage  of  mules  and 
wagons.  We  soon  began  to  rise  over  the  spuss  of  the  Cumber- 
land Mountains,  winding  our  way  across  a  back-bone  ridge, 
until  we  came  to  the  rapid  waters  of  New  River.  The  view  at 
some  high  turning  point  in  the  road  was  grand  and  imposing, 
and  in  the  clear  morning  air  we  could  see  at  least  a  hundred 
miles  away  the  undulating  lines  of  the  mountains  sweeping  away 
in  graceful  grandeur  to  the  fading  lines  of  the  blue  horizon. 

In  many  instances  we  passed  along  a  region  for  twenty  or 
twenty-five  miles  without  seeing  a  living  sign  of  human  habita- 
tion, and  the  tumble-down  log  huts  and  burnt  chimney  sites 
that  we  beheld  convinced  our  minds  that  loyal  hearts  that  once 
beat  responsive  to  the  Union  were  dead  or  refugees  in  Northern 
lands,  far  away  from  the  glowing  peaks  and  leaping  streams  of 
Tennessee. 

.On  the  29th  and  3Oth  of  August  we  passed  over  the  topmost 
peak  of  the  Cumberland  Mountains  and  camped  some  ten  miles 
from  the  town  of  Montgomery,  situated  near  the  southern  base 
of  the  mountain  range.  The  sight  from  the  top  of  the  mountain 
was  most  inspiring  to  the  soul  of  man.  Bold,  bare  rocks  shot 
out  against  the  clear  sky  like  mammoth  ships  upon  a  raging 
sea.  Deep,  dark  chasms  yawned  in  majestic  horror  upon  the 
eye  of  the  traveler,  and  the  thundering  roar  of  some  far-off  falls 
broke  upon  the  ear  like  the  rush  of  mighty  wind  sweeping  over 
a  primeval  forest.  The  mountain  looks  magnificent — 

"  Its  uplands  sloping  decked  the  mountain  side, 
Woods  over  woods,  in  gay  theatric  pride." 


BURNSIDE.  145 

Yet,  to  the  romantic  soul  filled  with  unutterable  admiration, 
the  gloaming,  the  starlight,  and  the  moonlight  must  intermingle 
to  bring  out  in  bold  relief  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  mountain 
scenery.  A  moonlight  night  I  stood  upon  one  of  the  wildest 
peaks  of  the  Cumberland,  the  sighing  pines  singing  to  the  stars, 
the  wood  crickets  chirping  at  my  feet,  and  the  sounds  of  dash- 
ing casades  carried  on  the  wings  and  dreams  of  night,  while  the 
"  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God  "  glittered  in  their  eternal 
depths  and  lit  up  the  green  mountain  with  a  glow  of  celestial 
light. 

At  such  a  moment  the  soul  communes  with  its  Creator,  and 
while  we  may,  perhaps,  doubt  the  reason  of  prayers,  creeds,  and 
churches,  the  most  reasoning  man  cannot  deny  the  existence  of 
a  God  in  the  vast  and  mysterious  realm  spread  out  before  him 
in  air,  water,  earth,  and  sky.  Those  majestic  mountain  tops 
were  not  called  into  being  and  clothed  with  a  rich  eternal  verd- 
ure by  chance.  Those  crystal  springs  and  roaring  rivers  did 
not  rise  and  meander  to  the  sea  without  some  grand  design. 
The  blue  heavens  above  were  not  spread  out  in  illimitable  beauty 
and  dotted  all  over  with  shining  worlds  without  a  plan.  No ! 
God  lives  in  every  breeze  that  wafts  over  the  earth ;  shines  in 
every  star  that  glitters  in  the  blue  vault  of  Heaven ;  sings  with 
every  warbler  that  flutters  in  the  forest;  breathes  in  every 
fragrant  flower,  and  when  the  mortals  of  this  transient  life  have 
lived  out  their  small  span  they  mingle  again,  for  some  unknown 
purpose,  with  the  component  parts  of  earth  and  sink  back  to 
some  grand  Omnipotence,  wise  and  eternal ! 

Burnside  and  his  troops  passed  through  the  city  of  Montgom- 
ery on  the  ist  of  September,  and  while  guerillas  and  rebel  cav- 
alry kept  watch  of  our  march  from  a  safe  distance,  they  did  not, 
or  could  not,  balk  us  in  our  grand  design  of  cutting  one  of  the 
main  arteries  of  the  roaring  Rebellion.  The  dilapidation  of  the 
loyal  town  of  Montgomery  was  sad  to  behold,  and  might  well 
be  compared  to  the  Deserted  Village  of  Goldsmith.  Its  inhab- 
itants lived  in  rural  comfort  before  the  Rebellion,  surrounded 


146  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

by  smiling  fields  and  productive  vineyards  that  decked  the 
upland,  sunny  slopes.  These  mountain  people,  sprinkled  with 
a  large  colony  of  Germans,  were  true  to  the  old  flag  when  the 
tocsin  of  war  was  sounded,  but  were  compelled  to  fly  for  their 
lives  as  refugees  to  the  North.  The  plantation  "chivalry  "  made 
it  too  hot  for  Union  men  to  live  in  the  atmosphere  of  slavery  and 
and  Confederate  conscription.  In  going  through  the  village  I 
did  not  see  a  living  citizen,  but  the  torn  roofs,  broken  fences, 
rotten  doors,  creaking  sign-boards,  straggling  hedges,  tall  weeds, 
blowing  thistles,  hanging  cobwebs,  and  "swallows  twittering  from 
their  straw-built  shed,"  betokened  decay,  desolation,  and  death. 

"  Sweet,  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall, 
And  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land." 

I  left  Montgomery  and  looked  back  with  a  sigh  upon  the 
straggling  broken  village  just  as  the  evening  sun  cast  its  last 
rays  over  the  ruined  homes  of  exiled,  banished,  loyal  hearts, 
who  forfeited  all  but  truth  and  honor  in  their  devotion  to  the 
Stars  and  Stripes. 

After  winding  our  dusty  way  for  four  days  more  we  neared 
the  railroad  at  Lenoir.  The  guerillas  infested  this  region  and 
became  troublesome.  At  one  spot,  in  passing  a  gorge  in  the 
mountain,  at  the  Roaring  Forks  of  the  Holston  River,  three  of 
the  men  of  my  regiment  were  killed  by  masked  men  in  the 
brush.  In  the  regiment  were  several  fugitives  or  refugees  from 
Tennessee.  George  Roburn  knew  every  pass  in  the  mountains 
and  every  ford  along  the  streams.  It  was  only  the  work  of  a 
moment  for  me  to  follow  where  the  smoke  of  the  guerillas'  guns 
still  scented  the  air.  With  Company  I  of  the  regiment  I  dashed 
after  the  mountain  assassins  and  determined  to  wreak  a  sweet 


BURNSIDE.  147 

vengeance  on  the  region  that  held  such  cut-throats.  It  was  a 
perilous  search,  and  somewhat  like  finding  a  needle  in  a  hay- 
stack. We  knew  that  to  get  on  the  south  side  the  guerillas 
would  be  compelled  to  go  to  Campbell's  Ford,  and  instead  of 
going  the  easy,  long  path  we  cut  right  through  the  brush,  into 
the  scrub  pines  and  cedars  that  blocked  our  way.  Inside  of  an 
hour  we  arrived  at  the  ford  and  secreted  ourselves  in  the  bushes 
to  await  results.  About  an  hour  before  sunset  we  saw  five  men 
sneaking  down  the  mountain  side  with  long  rifles  on  their 
shoulders.  They  were  dressed  in  ragged  butternut  clothes,  and 
might  be  the  advance  guards  of  Fra  Diavolo's  band  of  Italian 
robbers.  They  approached  the  stream  very  stealthily,  sending 
one  of  their  number  to  spy  out  the  lay-off  of  the  land.  He 
finally  blew  a  whistle  that  sounded  like  the  shrill  notes  of  a  wild 
turkey,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  gang  of  assassins  were  on  the 
banks  of  the  stream,  ready  to  cross.  My  men  were  not  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  where  they  stood.  I  yelled  out,  "  Halt ! " 
They  were  startled  for  a  moment,  and  then  plunged  into  the 
rapid  stream.  One  volley  killed  three  of  them,  wounded  one, 
and  the  other  was  washed  ashore.  I  ordered  the  men  to  capt- 
ure the  wounded  fellow  and  the  captain  of  the  band,  whose 
name  was  Stafford.  The  wounded  guerilla  soon  breathed  his 
last,  and  Stafford  threw  himself  on  his  knees  and  begged  for 
mercy.  He  recited  to  me,  with  trembling,  cowardly  lips,  that 
for  two  years  he  had  been  running  away  Union  men  from  Ten- 
nessee, or  forcing  them  into  the  Southern  Army,  and  in  many 
instances  had  killed  these  loyalists  and  burned  down  their  homes. 

We  left  "  Captain  "  Stafford  hanging  to  the  limb  of  a  syca- 
more tree  with  this  placard  hitched  to  his  breathless  bosom, 
"A  robber,  assassin,  and  spy." 

It  was  long  after  night  when  we  got  back  to  the  regiment, 
and  was  nearly  daylight  when  we  arrived  in  camp,  after  aveng- 
ing the  slaughter  of  three  of  my  men. 

The  next  day  Burnside's  army  struck  the  East  Tennessee 
railroad  at  Lenoir,  proceeded  to  Concord,  and  on  the  I5th  of 


148  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

September,  1863,  our  loyal  legions  marched  through  the  city  of 
Knoville,  and  never  let  go  our  grip  on  that  stronghold  of  moun- 
tain loyalty  until  the  Rebellion  gave  its  last  kick  at  Appomattox. 
The  story  of  the  siege  of  Knoxville  and  our  environment  by 
Longstreet's  troops  has  been  told  a  hundred  times.  My  regi- 
ment, the  Twenty -fourth  Kentucky,  took  a  prominent  part  in  the 
siege  on  the  south  side  of  the  Holston  River,  and  in  my  brigade 
were  the  One  Hundred  and  Third  and  One  Hundred  and  Fourth 
Ohio  and  Sixty-fifth  Illinois,  originally  commanded  by  Daniel 
Cameron,  of  Chicago.  A  braver  man  I  never  met,  and  his 
regiment  was  composed  of  men  as  gallant  and  bold  as  ever 
marched,  charged,  or  fell  on  the  battlefields  of  liberty. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


JIM  NELSON. 

A  TRUE  TALE  OF  GEORGIA  LOYALTY. 

JIM  NELSON  was  born  in  the  mountains  of  northern  Georgia, 
where,  "  from  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among,  leaps  the 
live  thunder."  When  the  Stars  and  Stripes  were  shot  down  at 
Sumter  he  was  nineteen  years  old,  tilling  with  his  father  a  few 
famished  acres  of  rugged,  rooty,  hilly  land. 

The  sound  of  the  shot  at  Sumter  came  rolling  over  the  cotton 
plains  until  its  echoes  startled  the  loyal  denizens  of  the  moun- 
tains and  convinced  them  of  the  fearful  danger  that  beset  their 
country.  Those  who  favored  rebellion  and  those  who  loved 
the  Union  took  sides  at  once  in  heart  or  action.  The  neighbors 
of  the  lowland,  who  favored  slavery,  watched  with  a  jealous  and 
suspicious  eye  the  action  of  the  upland  people,  who  almost  in- 
variably sided  with  the  cause  of  liberty.  Although  these  Georgia 
loyalists  were  greatly  in  the  minority,  the  fact  did  not  lessen 
their  love  for  the  Union  or  lessen  their  preparation  for  its  defense. 

Old  Sam  Nelson,  the  father  of  Jim,  was  a  noted  Unionist,  and 
his  mountain  cabin  soon  became  a  rendezvous  for  hearts  like 
his  own.  On  the  night  of  the  ist  of  June,  1861,  seven  of  the 
loyal  mountain  men  were  gathered  before  the  capacious  chim- 
ney hearth  of  this  fearless  old  Radical  discussing  the  plan  of 
raising  a  company  to  defend  the  old  flag.  The  "  back  log  " 
was  long  and  high ;  hickory  and  oak  were  piled  up  in  fantastic 
shape;  the  "  dog  irons  "  glowed  in  their  effort  to  sustain  the 

(149) 


150  JEWELS  OF  MEMORTT. 

weight  and  heat  of  the  leaping  blazes  as  they  sputtered,  flashed, 
and  roared  up  the  wide,  stick,  sooty  chimney. 

The  good  housewife  had  spread  a  mountain  meal  of  fried 
bacon,  corn  pone  egg  bread,  hot  biscuits,  strong  coffee,  fried 
eggs,  good  butter,  and  milk ;  and,  to  cap  the  climax,  there  was 
placed  at  the  head  of  the  puncheon  table  a  stone  jug  of  the  best 
"  apple  jack  "  in  the  county. 

Sam  Nelson  had  only  two  children,  Jim  and  Katie,  the  latter 
two  years  younger  than  the  boy.  This  pair  that  memorable 
night  "  passed  the  things  around,"  while  the  "  old  lady  "  did 
the  honors  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  the  "  old  man  "  sitting  at  the 
head  dispensing  food  and  fluid  in  equal  quantities;  perhaps 
more  fluid  than  food. 

When  pleasure,  peace,  and  patriotism,  combined  with  song, 
pervaded  the  group  of  loyal  hearts  about  the  rustic  board,  a 
fiendish  yell  and  loud  rappings  reverberated  on  the  breeze,  and 
in  an  instant  the  double  room  was  filled  with  a  score  of  masked, 
armed  men.  The  leader  made  a  sign,  and  in  a  period  of  less 
time  than  I  can  tell  it  the  men  were  hustled  out  of  the  house, 
rushed  into  the  woods  nearby,  and  ignominiously  shot — all  save 
Jim  Nelson,  who  rushed  away  into  the  darkness  and  hid  him- 
self in  a  secret  cave  that  overlooked  his  childhood  home. 

The  mother  and  daughter  fled  to  a  neighbor's  cabin,  three 
miles  away,  but  ere  they  lost  sight  of  their  happy  home  they 
looked  back  through  the  midnight  gloom  and  beheld  the  sky 
lit  up  with  the  burning  sparks  of  their  cabin.  Jim,  too,  from 
his  temporary  hiding  place  saw  sink  into  ashes  the  smouldering 
remains  of  all  that  was  dear  to  him,  and  knew  that  but  a  few 
rods  away  his  father  and  friends  lay  cold  in  death,  while  the 
chivalric  (?)  Confederates  from  the  cotton  fields  below  had  van- 
ished as  quickly  as  they  appeared,  after  a  brilliant  exploit  of 
midnight  murder  and  arson. 

Then  and  there  Jim  Nelson  swore  in  his  heart  and  hissed  it 
through  his  teeth  that  henceforth  his  life  should  be  dedicated 
to  wreaking  vengeance  upon  any  person  or  thing  that  aided  the 


JIM    NELSON.  151 

rebel  cause.  He  alarmed  his  loyal  neighbors  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  ere  the  sun  was  an  hour  high  a  group  of  friends  had 
assembled  about  the  dead  patriots,  and  with  a  silent  prayer  of 
the  heart  they  were  wrapped  in  blankets  and  buried  in  one  grave 
at  the  base  of  a  pinnacled  crag  that  overlooked  the  glimmering 
vale  below.  A  dozen  of  the  sons  of  the  dead  loyalists  placed 
themselves  at  once  under  the  leadership  of  Capt.  Jim  Nelson, 
and,  armed  with  belts,  bowie-knives,  Kentucky  rifles,  and  home- 
made ammunition,  this  desperate  band,  like  the  wild  eagles  of 
their  native  mountains,  swooped  down  on  their  destined  prey 
wherever  found,  and  for  three  years  were — a  terror  to  regular, 
guerrilla,  and  citizen  Confederates.  Like  Roderick  Dhu's  de- 
fiance to  Fitzjames — 

"  The  mountaineer  cast  glance  of  pride 
Along  old  Lookout's  living  side; 
Then  fixed  his  eye  and  sable  brow 
Full  on  Fitz  James:  '  How  say'st  thee  now?' 
These  are  old  Georgia's  warriors  true, 
And  Saxon — I  am  Roderick  Dhu!" 

The  Confederate  troops  in  large  and  various  expeditions  were 
sent  into  the  Georgia  mountains  to  blot  out  this  daring  band  of 
patriots,  but  all  effort  proved  unavailing,  as  the  fox  and  tiger 
cat  were  not  more  skilled  by  nature  in  rinding  secret  places  of 
rest  and  security  than  Captain  Nelson  and  his  desperate  com- 
rades. 

When  General  Sherman  moved  out  from  Tunnell  Hill  and 
through  Snake  Creek  Gap,  about  the  6th  of  May,  1864,  Jim 
and  his  little  band  heard  the  tramp  of  their  Union  brothers  from 
the  rugged  heights  of  Rocky  Face  and  Buzzard's  Roost  and 
followed  in  the  wake  of  the  conquering  legions  down  to  Resaca 
and  Cartersville,  on  to  the  Etowah  River. 

While  the  army  of  Sherman  was  crossing  the  Etowah  at  Car- 
tersville on  pontoon  bridges,  the  railroad  bridge  having  been 
burned  by  the  retreating  troops  of  Johnston,  Capt.  Jim  Nelson 


152  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

appeared  at  the  headquarters  of  Gen.  John  M.  Schofield,  com- 
manding the  Twenty -third  Army  Corps,  and  disclosed  a  scheme 
to  the  General  for  burning  and  destroying  the  Confederate  can- 
non and  ammunition  foundry,  located  about  twenty-five  miles 
above,  on  the  headwaters  of  the  Etowah.  Jim  knew  every  by- 
path, stream,  rock,  and  hill  in  this  iron  region ;  and  had  but  a 
short  time  before  his  appearance  at  Schofield's  headquarters 
been  employed  as  a  mill  hand  at  the  foundry  in  question,  where 
he,  under  the  guise  of  a  refugee  from  Kentucky,  stored  his  mind 
with  every  detail  surrounding  the  place,  and  when  his  daily 
labor  ceased  he  would  mingle  with  the  regiment  of  Confederate 
cavalry  that  guarded  the  mill  from  their  encampment  at  the 
south  end  of  the  rustic  bridge  that  spanned  the  rapid,  narrow 
stream.  The  shambling  foundry  was  on  the  north  side  of  the 
Etowah,  abutting  the  broken  bridge,  and  a  mile  below  there 
was  a  country  fording  place. 

All  this  and  much  more  was  told  to  the  commander  of  the 
corps,  communicated  to  General  Sherman,  and  finally  left  to 
Gen.  J.  D.  Cox  to  execute  in  his  own  way  under  the  guidance 
of  the  mountain  scout. 

General  Cox  commanded  the  division  that  lay  next  to  this 
duty.  After  a  thorough  talk  with  Captain  Nelson  he  was 
finally  introduced  to  Capt.  James  Caughlan,  aide-de-camp  on 
the  staff  of  the  General.  He  was  ordered  to  select  fifty  men 
from  the  body  of  the  division  who  would  voluntarily  join  this 
forlorn  hope  in  going  within  the  enemy's  lines  for  the  purpose 
of  destroying  one  of  the  material  sinews  of  the  crumbling  Re- 
bellion. 

Captain  Caughlan,  a  gallant  young  Irishman,  soon  selected 
from  ten  regiments — Reilley's  and  Cameron's  brigades  princi- 
pally— the  voluntary  fifty  men  needed  to  destroy  the  munitions 
of  the  foe.  As  Caughlan  was  of  my  own  regiment,  and  about 
my  age,  twenty-one,  he  asked  me  to  be  his  second  in  command, 
and  I  consented  with  delight,  for  it  has  ever  been  my  nature 


JIM    NELSON.  153 

and  ambition  to  think  and  act  outside  the  mathematical  ruts  of 
mankind,  and  as  "  I  set  my  life  upon  a  cast,  will  stand  the  haz- 
ard of  the  die." 

One  bright  morning,  about  the  last  of  May,  1864,  as  the  sun 
rose  in  splendor  over  the  rugged  hills  of  the  Etowah,  with  two 
day's  rations,  forty  rounds  of  ammunition  for  selected  breach - 
loading  Winchester  rifles,  a  single  blanket,  canteens,  and  light 
hearts,  the  fifty  men,  Captains  Caughlan,  Nelson,  and  myself 
left  the  beaten  country  road  and  plunged  into  the  wild  moun- 
tain paths  of  Georgia  to  do  or  die  in  the  interest  of  Union  and 
liberty. 

About  5  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  we  made  a  halt  on  a  high 
hill  about  a  mile  from  the  object  of  our  destruction.  Through 
the  towering  trees  and  rolling  hills  we  could  see  the  smoke  curl 
up  into  the  clouds  from  the  furnace  and  factory  and  hear  occa- 
sional notes  from  the  bugle  of  the  cavalry  as  they  sent  out  their 
evening  calls,  while  the  hum  and  roar  of  the  mill  died  away  as 
the  supper  hour  of  6  o'clock  released  the  workmen  for  the  day. 

We  approached  the  mill  by  a  secret  path  or  ravine  about 
6:30,  when  the  hands  and  cavalry  guards  were  eating  their 
evening  meal  in  fancied  security,  and  while  the  main  body  of 
our  men  were  ambushed  near  the  northern  end  of  the  bridge. 
Caughlan,  the  guide,  and  myself  rapidly  entered  the  factory, 
where  hogsheads  of  turpentine  were  stored,  and  after  laying 
prepared  fuse  in  various  places,  even  into  the  covered  recesses 
of  the  ammunition  room,  we  cast  our  lighted  torches  around  the 
foundry,  fired  off  the  fuse,  and  ere  five  minutes  had  passed  we 
were  back  with  our  men  on  a  rapid  retreat  toward  the  hill  we 
had  left  less  than  an  hour  before. 

But  on  our  rapid  "advance  to  the  rear"  we  had  the  glorious 
satisfaction  to  hear  a  continual  discharge  of  shells  and  a  sputter 
of  cartridges  as  if  a  terrible  battle  was  raging  behind  us,  and 
then,  too,  as  the  rolling  moon  wheeled  her  nightly  car  into  the 
warm  summer  sky,  we  beheld  the  smoke  and  flames  of  the 


154  JEWELS   OF   MEMORY. 

burning  building  rise  higher  and  higher,  until  the  heavens  were 
lit  up  with  the  consuming  instruments  of  rebellion. 

Loud  and  long  we  could  hear  the  bugles  and  trumpets  sound- 
ing "boots  and  saddle,"  as  the  "horse  marines"  of  the  Con- 
federacy awoke  to  the  realization  that  a  "Yankee  trick"  had 
been  played  on  their  slumbering  credulity. 

For  ten  miles  we  kept  on  our  course  that  lovely  moonlight 
night,  and  when  we  thought  that  the  chivalric  cavalcade  would 
not  get  to  the  ford  below  the  burning  bridge  quick  enough  to 
intercept  us  before  a  safe  distance  from  our  lines,  the  guide, 
Captain  Nelson,  advised  us  to  leave  the  woods  and  enter  the 
main  country  road,  where  our  progress  would  be  easier  and 
march  more  rapid.  This  we  did,  although  very  weary  from  the 
long  march  of  the  day  and  the  excitement  that  a  forlorn  hope 
engenders. 

We  were  leisurely  winding  our  way  up  a  long  and  narrow 
rocky  hill,  with  steep  sides,  when  all  at  once  we  heard  the 
clattering  sounds  of  the  pursuing  cavalry,  like  the  far-off  roar 
of  falling  waters.  Something  desperate  must  be  done  at  once, 
and  I  suggested  to  Captain  Caughlan  that  unless  we  gave  the 
enemy  the  loads  of  lead  in  our  breach-loaders  we  might  never 
get  to  camp,  or  would  at  least  stand  a  fine  chance  to  become 
aristocratic  boarders  at  Andersonville  or  Libby  Prison.  We 
halted  at  once  just  over  the  brow  of  the  of  the  narrow  summit 
and  ordered  the  men  to  make  a  barricade  of  the  fence  rails  that 
lined  the  road  on  each  side,  and  also  to  tumble  down  such  stones 
as  lay  loose  on  the  steep  banks.  In  less  than  ten  minutes  we 
had  fashioned  an  impromptu  fort  that  would  have  done  credit 
to  the  most  enthusiastic  Frenchman  when  the  guillotine  was 
working  off  heroic  heads  in  the  streets  of  Paris. 

It  was  understood  that  after  we  had  pumped  our  loads  of  lead 
into  the  "  bloods  "  of  the  Confederacy  we  were  to  again  follow 
the  guide,  take  to  the  woods,  and  never  stop  until  we  arrived 
inside  the  Union  lines.  We  did  not  have  long  to  wait.  It  must 
have  been  about  9  o'clock,  and  the  moon  shone  as  bright  as 


JIM    NELSON.  155 

day.  Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  roaring  sound  of  the  pursu- 
ing foe,  while  we  lay  close  to  the  ground  on  our  arms,  ready  to 
deliver  the  deadly  volley  at  the  order  of  our  intrepid  com- 
mander. 

The  jingling  of  swinging  swords  and  sabers,  the  hoarse  com- 
mands of  officers,  the  labored  snorts  of  horses,  and  the  flash 
of  their  gleaming  accoutrements  as  they  rose  over  the  brow 
of  the  hill,  brought  the  command,  "  fire ! "  from  our  ranks, 
when  all  the  front  files  of  the  foe  went  down  in  a  heap,  and  as 
others  followed,  even  to  the  pointed  fence  rails,  we  continued  to 
fire  down  the  narrow  road  until  it  seemed  that  a  dark  mass  of 
men  and  horses  filled  the  vacancy,  making  the  night  winds 
mournful  with  their  dying  groans.  Bullets  from  the  foe  flew 
high  and  around  us,  but  in  a  few  moments  all  was  compara- 
tively still,  while  the  "  Yanks  "  had  precipitatedly  taken  to  the 
woods  without  the  loss  of  a  single  man  and  only  two  slightly 
wounded — Jim  Jackson  and  Tom  Gill. 

The  first  beams  of  morning  lit  up  the  gleaming  tents  of 
"  Sherman's  bummers,"  a  mile  away  on  the  naked  hills  around 
Cartersville,  and  the  shrill  chorus  of  the  thrilling  reveille,  as  it 
resounded  from  regiment  to  regiment,  echoed  in  our  patriotic 
hearts  like  liquid  tones  of  mellow  music.  We  had  performed 
our  duty  well,  and  as  we  drew  up  at  a  halt  in  front  of  Cox's 
headquarters  and  were  dismissed  to  our  various  commands  with 
rich  compliments  for  our  perilous  labor,  each  man  and  officer 
felt  as  if  the  General  of  the  Army  was  no  better  than  himself. 

Capt.  Jim  Nelson  remained  as  a  valuable  scout  around  head- 
quarters until  the  evacuation  of  Atlanta  by  Hood,  where  he  was 
the  first  man  that  entered  the  city  at  the  head  of  Slocum's  corps, 
but  as  fate  would  have  it,  while  he  was  investigating  matters 
near  the  burning  railroad  depot,  a  bombshell  exploded  in  his 
immediate  front,  inflicting  a  mortal  wound,  from  which  he  died 
that  memorable  night.  Yet,  ere  he  breathed  his  last,  he  beheld 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  proudly  floating  over  the  capital  city  of 


156  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

his  native  State,  and  the  murder  of  his  father  and  friends  was 
grandly  avenged. 

Capt.  Jim  Caughlan,  my  intimate  friend,  was  killed  at  the  battle* 
of  Franklin,  Tenn.,  where  Hood  and  the  gallant  Pat  Cleburne,  a 
Confederate  Irishman,  fought  with  desperation  the  victorious 
hosts  of  the  Union.  Caughlan  and  Cleburne  were  killed  almost 
at  the  same  time  and  place,  one  dying  for  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
and  the  other  for  the  Stars  and  Bars. 

"  So,  with  an  equal  splendor 

The  morning  sun  rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day, 
Bordering  with  gold  the  blue, 

Mellowing  with  gold  the  gray!  " 


CHAPTER    XX. 


IOWA  EXPERIENCE. 

ON  THE  ist  of  January  I  bid  good-bye  to  the  Twenty-fourth 
Kentucky  never  again  to  mingle  with  it  in  the  rush  of  battle  or 
join  in  its  cheer  of  victory.  Mountain,  valley,  stream,  camp, 
and  battlefield  we  left  behind  to  many  conrades  who  fell  in  the 
roaring  fray ;  and  while  the  birds  sang  as  sweetly,  the  rivers  ran 
as  freely,  and  the  flowers  bloomed  as  brightly,  they  would  never 
again  awaken  heroic  melodies  in  the  hearts  of  those  daring  war- 
riors who  went  down  in  the  shock  and  crash  of  battle. 

To  comrades  who  have  the  pangs  of  hospital  treatment  and 
the  shock  of  war,  I  send  forth  greeting  and  say  that  while  life 
lingers  we  cannot  forget  the  glory  and  renown  of  the  old  Twenty- 
fourth,  whose  flag  rose  triumphant  on  many  a  battlefield  and 
whose  record  for  daring  deeds  may  be  equaled  but  cannot  be 
surpassed  by  any  regiment  that  served  the  Government. 

The  Twenty-fourth  Kentucky  was  organized  in  the  very  face 
of  treason.  It  defied  relatives  and  friends  for  the  sake  of  the 
Union,  fought  in  front  when  loved  ones  at  home  were  being  de- 
stroyed by  the  enemy,  skirmished  on  the  advanced  dead-lines 
of  brigades,  divisions,  and  corps  as  an  entering  wedge  to  victory, 
marched  by  road,  rail,  and  boat  more  miles  than  any  other 
regiment  in  the  service,  and  at  last  furled  forever  the  torn  and 
blood-stained  flag  to  rest  with  the  archives  of  a  State  saved  to  the 
Union  by  its  valor. 

To  every  soldier  in  every  land,  and  in  every  good  cause,  I 
extend  a  heart  and  hand,  whether  or  not  we  kneel  at  the  same 
altar  or  worship  the  same  God. 

(157) 


158  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

Fame,  like  the  soul,  is  immortal. 

"  The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink  in  years; 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 
Unhurt  amidst  the  war  of  elements, 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crash  of  worlds.". 

The  unsettled  state  of  society  in  my  old  Kentucky  home 
induced  me  to  accept  an  invitation  to  visit  an  uncle  who  lived 
in  Allamakee  County,  Iowa. 

The  winter  of  1865  was  very  severe  in  the  Northwest.  A 
few  quite  frigid  days  among  the  rugged,  snow-capped  hills  of 
Allamakee  made  me  wish  for  the  warm  rays  of  the  sunny  South 
and  the  genial  smiles  of  those  dear  old  army  friends  I  left  behind. 
I  was  about  to  leave  the  Hawkeye  State  in  disgust  at  the  cold 
reception  nature  extended,  when  my  uncle  and  family  suggested 
that  I  should  procure  a  country  school  and  turn  my  mind  away 
from  brooding  over  the  past. 

I  concluded  to  make  application  for  a  school  located  at  Paint- 
Rock  Church,  overlooking  the  waters  of  the  Mississippi  River 
and  within  a  mile  of  Harper's  Ferry,  a  small  town  in  the  south- 
eastern part  of  the  county. 

The  trustee  of  the  school,  Barry,  was  willing  that  I  should 
enter  upon  the  duties  of  teacher  at  once,  but  a  certificate  must 
first  be  procured  from  the  county  superintendent,  whose  office 
was  located  at  Waukon,  the  county  seat,  fifteen  miles  away.  I 
easily  procured  the  needed  certificate. 

Being  now  armed  with  official  authority,  I  presented  myself 
at  the  new  stone  school-house  one  blue  Monday  morning  in 
January,  1865,  and  began  the  role  of  a  country  pedagogue. 

Arriving  early  in  the  morning  from  Harper's  Ferry  I  un- 
locked the  establishment  and  found  nothing  but  cheerless  walls, 
damp  and  musty.  A  few  benches  were  scattered  about  the 
room,  and  a  pine  desk  was  stuck  in  one  corner  to  accommodate 
the  presiding  autocrat.  An  old  Franklin  stove  that  might  have 
warmed  its  namesake  in  the  Revolutionary  War  opened  its 


IOWA    EXPERIENCE.  159 

broad  jaws  for  the  reception  of  fuel.  The  wood-pile  outside  was 
unchopped.  As  some  of  the  "  big  boys  "  gathered  in,  I  advised 
them  to  procure  an  axe  from  one  of  the  neighbors  and  split 
enough  wood  to  dispel  the  cold  and  frost  that  had  settled  on 
the  stone  wall,  and  even  fringed  the  '•  Old  Franklin  "  with  fan- 
tastic embellishments.  After  digging  about  in  three  feet  of  snow 
that  surrounded  the  wood-pile  and  school-house,  we  finally 
fished  out  enough  to  make  a  roaring  fire  and  warm  the  shiver- 
ing children  that  vied  with  each  other  in  scorching  their  clothes 
in  an  effort  to  straddle  the  stove. 

When  9  o'clock  arrived  I  rang  the  bell  with  the  air  of  a  suc- 
cessful auctioneer,  keeping  a  stern  face  that  would  have  done 
great  credit  to  a  philosopher  of  sixty,  much  more  to  a  youth  of 
twenty-two  who  had  just  launched  out  as  an  educator. 

When  silence  prevailed  I  rose  at  the  desk  and  addressed  the 
seventy-five  scholars  who  came  from  the  snow-clad  farms  of 
Allamakee. 

I  merely  said  that  I  had  been  employed  by  the  trustees  to 
teach  the  school  for  a  period  of  six  months  and  hoped  that  the 
boys  would  behave  like  gentlemen  and  the  girls  act  like  ladies. 
In  conclusion,  I  had  only  to  lay  down  the  simple  rule  that  when 
they  did  right  I  should  reward  them,  and  when  they  did  wrong 
I  should  certainly  punish  them. 

These  remarks  were  taken  by  the  younger  children  with  hu- 
mility, but  a  few  of  the  larger  boys  winked  at  each  other,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  That's  an  old  gag ;  that  can't  frighten  scholars 
who  have  ducked  bigger  teachers  than  you  are.  It  might  be 
well  to  give  that  speech  to  the  '  marines,'  but  for  the  stalwart 
sons  of  Erin  living  among  the  grubs  of  Allamakee  it  will  not 
do ;  the  colors  of  your  eloquence  will  not  wash !  "  Notwith- 
standing this  imagined  reply  to  my  first  and  last  effort  as  a 
teacher,  I  proceeded  at  once  to  bring  order  out  of  chaos  and 
to  class  the  school. 

The  third  day  of  my  mission  brought  about  a  free  fight 
among  the  scholars,  during  my  absence  at  dinner.  When  school 


I6O  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

was  called  I  proceeded  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  the  row.  It 
seems  that  a  son  of  Erin  and  a  waif  from  the  Fatherland  dis- 
puted about  the  honor  and  bravery  of  their  ancestors,  and  the 
other  scholars  joined  in  the  fight  with  a  clannish  spirit  that 
would  have  been  an  honor  to  the  bogs  of  Ireland  or  the  upland 
slopes  of  Scotland.  After  due  investigation,  I  implicated  only 
seventeen  boys  and  girls  in  the  fight,  sending  the  residue  of  my 
institution  to  their  seats  and  books.  When  all  was  ready,  I 
went  to  business  with  a  fine  hickory  ruler  that  had  been  pro- 
vided in  anticipation  of  just  such  troubles.  The  smaller  schol- 
ars took  their  light  punishment  with  suppressed  sobs,  and  went 
to  their  benches  with  sulks.  The  leader  of  the  riot  was  the 
only  one  who  attempted  to  resist  and  treat  my  proposal  to  whip 
him  with  contempt.  I  reasoned  with  the  stalwart  Hibernian, 
impressing  upon  him  his  violation  of  school  rules  and  my  in- 
tention to  have  equality  of  punishment.  He  finally  squared 
off,  swore  with  the  swagger  of  a  prize-fighter,  but  ere  he  could 
execute  his  threat  I  hit  him  with  the  rule  just  under  the  ear  and 
sent  him  to  the  floor  in  a  shiver  of  pain.  A  dipper  of  water 
brought  him  to,  in  tears,  when  I  finished  his  punishment  by 
additional  blows  on  his  hands,  sending  him  to  his  seat  as  if 
nothing  had  occurred  to  disturb  the  equanimity  of  the  school. 

From  that  day  to  the  close  of  my  term  in  June  I  was  boss  of 
the  institution,  and  had  no  further  occasion  to  punish  any  of  the 
scholars.  When  the  examination  and  exhibition  closed  on  the 
last  day,  scholars,  parents,  and  friends  left  me  with  thanks, 
praise,  and  tears ;  and  many  of  my  dear  old  pupils  will  remem- 
ber to  this  day  the  pleasant  hours  and  loving  chats  we  had 
under  the  noon-day  shade  of  Paint-Rock  Church  and  the  de- 
lightful strolls  we  took  among  those  rugged  hills  and  blooming 
vales. 

My  experience  as  a  village  schoolmaster  will  long  be  remem- 
bered ;  and  the  beautiful  site  of  the  school,  church,  and  graveyard 
was  all  that  the  most  romantic  and  poetic  heart  could  wish.  Sit- 
uated on  a  high  hill,  overlooking  the  rolling  plains  to  the  west, 


IOWA   EXPERIENCE.  l6l 

and  commanding  a  view  to  the  south  and  east,  with  the  waters 
of  the  Mississippi  sweeping  along  to  the  sea,  it  was  no  wonder 
that  my  young  heart  swelled  with  emotion  when  contemplating 
the  beauty  of  the  landscape.  How  often  have  I  lingered  in  the 
tangled  walks  of  the  old  churchyard,  under  a  spreading  oak, 
and  gazed  in  rapture  at  the  golden  glory  of  the  setting  sun,  as 
the  storm  clouds  in  the  west  swept  across  the  cardinal  colors  of 
the  day.  My  pathway  through  woods  and  fields  was  made 
radiant  with  boys  and  girls.  Sleigh  rides,  parties,  and  occa- 
sional balls  at  Harper's  Ferry  intervened  to  banish  the  mo- 
notony oi  country  life,  and  while  I  kept  the  face  of  a  stern 
philosopher  in  the  school-room,  I  acted  with  all  the  vanity  and 
freedom  of  a  drum-major  in  the  ball-room. 

Spelling  matches  at  the  country  schools  were  occasions  for 
fun  and  opportunities  for  the  belles  and  beaux  to  indulge  in 
the  never-ceasing  eccentricities  of  Cupid,  who  shoots  his  arrows 
where  least  expected,  inflicting  wounds  that  never  heal  and 
pleasant  pangs  that  never  die. 

My  patrons  and  scholars  insisted  that  I  should  give  a  spelling 
match  at  the  old  school-house,  and  as  I  was  always  ready  and 
willing  to  indulge  the  love  of  sociability,  I  readily  consented  to 
the  proposition.  The  evening  arrived,  and  with  it  came  more 
than  a  hundred  of  the  neighbors  and  their  children,  anxious  to 
battle  for  the  mastery  in  spelling,  after  which  dancing  was  in- 
dulged in  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  all  present. 

A  match  was  soon  arranged  by  two  rural  beauties,  who  tossed 
up  for  the  first  choice  of  spellers.  I  was  chosen  by  one  of  the 
contestants,  and  so  it  went  on  to  the  end  of  the  programme, 
when  two  lines  of  warlike  intellects  stood  facing  each  other  for 
battle.  The  person  who  missed  stepped  down  and  out,  and  the 
one  that  remained  on  the  floor  to  the  last  carried  off  the  prize 
and  became  the  noted  champion  of  the  evening.  After  the  first 
round,  a  simple  word  was  given  to  me  by  the  umpire,  and, 
ludicrous  to  relate,  I  went  down  at  the  first  shot,  retiring  to  one 
of  the  benches  amid  the  laughter  of  the  whole  audience. 


162  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

A  beautiful  young  girl  of  fifteen  carried  off  the  prize,  receiv- 
ing the  encomiums  of  the  whole  house  for  her  remarkable 
memory  and  precise  information.  I  know  it  is  inexcusable  for 
a  man  of  education  to  be  a  bad  speller ;  but,  even  to  this  day, 
I  am  liable  to  insult  the  memory  of  Noah  Webster,  and  even 
rattle  the  bones  of  Lindley  Murray,  in  violating  his  rule  that  a 
verb  must  agree  with  its  nominative  in  number,  person,  and  case. 

The  schoolmaster  is  a  wonderful  man  among  yeomanry,  and 
the  greatness  of  Goldsmith's  pedagogue  may  well  illustrate  his 
rural  renown : 

"  The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write  and  cipher  too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage. 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge; 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew." 

At  the  conclusion  of  my  school  I  went  to  Lansing,  and  through 
the  instrumentality  of  the  county  treasurer,  a  shrewd  and  pleas- 
ant gentiemen,  was  employed  to  collect  delinquent  taxes,  long 
due  by  the  rustic  citizens  of  Franklin  and  Linton  townships. 
With  the  necessary  books  and  a  commission  as  deputy  collector, 
I  took  up  my  headquarters  at  the  village  of  Volney,  and  adver- 
tised that  I  was  ready  and  willing  to  collect  delinquent  taxes. 
I  waited  for  my  pronunciamento  to  take  effect,  but  as  the  good 
people  did  not  rush  frantically  from  the  hills  and  valleys  in  re- 
sponse to  my  call,  I  concluded  to  go  to  the  mountain,  since  the 
mountain  would  not  come  to  me. 

The  life  of  a  delinquent  tax-collector  is  not  a  happy  one — 
particularly  where  the  ground  has  been  worked  over  for  ten 
years  by  ambitious  deputies.  The  doctor  is  looked  upon  with 
fear  and  anxiety  by  his  patient ;  the  lawyer  is  tolerated  with4 
hope  and  suspicion  by  his  client ;  the  undertaker  comes  with  a 


IOWA    EXPERIENCE.  163 

melancholy  face  to  perform  the  last  sad  duty  for  mankind ;  but 
the  delinquent  tax-collector  is  looked  upon  in  his  official  capac 
ity  as  a  combination  of  all  the  horrors — a  pest  to  be  avoided 
and  a  nuisance  to  be  abated. 

I  spent  the  month  of  July,  1865,  among  the  hills  of  Yellow 
River,  coaxing  and  threatening  the  good  people  with  penalties 
unless  they  paid  the  real  and  personal  taxes  demanded  in  the 
name  of  the  Hawkeye  State,  and  was  unusually  successful  in 
securing  the  payment  of  taxes  that  had  slumbered  for  many 
years.  I  shall  never  forget  the  bold  move  I  made  on  an  old 
Irish  bachelor  who  lived  like  an  anchorite  on  a  forty-acre  farm 
perched  on  a  rugged  height  overlooking  Yellow  River.  He 
owed  the  State  of  Iowa  about  $50,  but  had  for  more  than  ten 
years  evaded  every  tax-collector  who  came  to  the  neighbor- 
hood. They  could  never  find  him  at  home  when  endeavoring 
to  give  the  notice  of  levy,  and  although  the  deputies  often 
climbed  the  bluffs  in  pursuit  of  the  delinquent,  they  never  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  the  taxes. 

Duly  armed  with  my  legal  documents  and  an  army  "  pepper- 
box," I  started  away  one  bright  morning  through  the  crooked 
defiles  leading  out  from  Volney,  and  began  to  climb  the  heights 
reaching  to  the  lands  of  the  fierce  old  bachelor.  I  imagined 
myself  for  awhile  in  the  highlands  of  Scotland  or  among  the 
heather  mountains  of  Ireland,  in  search  of  some  bold  outlaws 
who  worked  the  secrets  of  the  still.  While  thus  musing,  in  con- 
templation wild,  I  beheld  a  curl  of  smoke  rising  out  of  a  clump 
of  trees  and  saw  a  yoke  of  oxen  grazing  near  a  cornfield  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  old  bachelor's  cabin.  I  let  down  a  pair  of  bars, 
turned  the  cattle  into  the  cornfield,  and  awaited  developments. 
The  joy  of  the  cattle  was  great  while  crunching  the  young 
corn,  and  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell  until  the  old  bachelor 
rushed  from  his  cabin,  bareheaded,  and  yelling  like  a  trooper 
at  the  oxen.  The  thought  of  saving  his  crop  made  him  obliv- 
ious of  my  presence.  As  he  rushed  by  me  in  his  flight  after 
the  cattle,  I  cried,  "  Halt !  "  He  looked  at  me  with  a  gaze  of 


164  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

astonishment,  showing  all  the  rage  of  a  trapped  lion.  I  at  once 
made  known  my  business,  and  with  the  legal  documents  in  one 
hand  and  a  revolver  in  the  other,  served  due  notice  on  the  de- 
linquent, levied  on  his  yoke  of  oxen  to  satisfy  the  debt,  and 
thus,  with  the  air  of  a  victorious  General,  maintained  the  maj- 
esty of  the  law  and  sustained  the  honor  of  Iowa,  while  threaten- 
ing to  blow  off  the  head-piece  of  a  citizen  if  he  dared  to  decline 
my  demand  or  interfere  with  me  in  the  execution  of  my  office. 

When  he  realized  the  trap  he  had  fallen  into  and  saw  me 
drive  off  his  cattle,  he  immediately  sued  for  quarter ;  and  before 
I  got  back  to  Volney  he  had  caught  up  with  me  and  tendered 
the  taxes  with  all  penalties  and  costs  attached.  I  gave  the  old 
fellow  his  receipt  in  full,  released  the  oxen,  shook  his  hand, 
bade  him  be  virtuous  and  consequently  happy ;  and  I  have  no 
doubt  but  that  the  lesson  he  received  gave  him  greater  respect 
for  human  laws,  and  a  wise  discrimination  to  know  that  a  legal 
document,  backed  up  by  a  pistol,  is  not  to  be  ignored. 

My  duties  as  a  tax-gatherer  soon  ceased,  and  after  deducting 
my  per  cent.  I  turned  in  the  balance  to  the  treasurer  of  Alla- 

makee  County. 

*  ****** 

I  had  often  heard  that  it  was  sweet  to  die  for  one's  country ; 
and,  as  I  was  filled  with  hope  and  poetry,  I  concluded  to  cast 
my  drag-net  into  the  Republican  county  convention  that  assem- 
bled at  Waukon  on  the  i8th  of  August,  1865. 

After  a  laborious  campaign  among  the  primary  caucuses, 
making  all  the  promises  incident  to  a  canvass  of  a  Congress- 
man, assuring  the  honest  voters  that  they  were  the  salt  of  the 
earth  and  I  but  the  humble  instrument  to  wait  for  and  record 
their  will,  the  convention  met,  and  I  received  a  unanimous  vote 
as  candidate  for  the  legislature.  As  this  high  honor  came  un- 
sought (?)  to  a  man  of  twenty-two,  who  had  lived  in  the  county 
scarcely  a  year,  I  could  do  nothing  else  but  accept  in  a  mod- 
est (?)  speech,  expressing  the  usual  surprise  and  informing  the 
convention  of  my  unworthiness ;  then  soaring  aloft  in  the  realms 


IOWA  EXPERIENCE.  165 

of  native  eloquence,  I  pledged  undying  love  to  the  principles  of 
the  Republican  party  and  proposed  to  bear  onward  the  stand- 
ard of  freedom  until  the  election  sunset  of  October  shone  pure 
and  bright  upon  the  victorious  folds  of  the  star-spangled  banner 
planted  upon  the  crumbling  ramparts  of  Democracy ! 

I  made  a  joint  canvass  with  the  Democratic  nominee,  who 
was  more  than  fifty  years  of  age — an  old  stager  who  could 
change  his  political  opinions  with  as  much  ease  and  facility  as 
a  diver  changes  his  suit. 

SENATOR    ALLISON. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  I  met  CoL  William  B.  Alli- 
son. It  was  under  rather  peculiar  circumstances,  and  in  the 
month  of  September,  1865,  at  Waukon,  Iowa,  the  county  seat 
of  Allamakee. 

Governor  Stone  was  running  on  the  Republican  ticket,  and 
the  State  issue  was  an  amendment  striking  the  word  "white" 
out  of  the  Hawkeye  constitution,  so  that  the  black  man  or  any 
other  man  might  have  equal  rights  before  the  law  in  the  State 
of  Iowa. 

At  the  time  above  mentioned  Colonel  Allison  was  malting  a 
Congressional  canvass  of  the  twelve  counties  in  his  district,  and 
dropped  in  at  Waukon  the  very  evening  that  Paulk  and  myself 
were  to  enlighten  the  natives  at  the  court-house.  It  was  rather 
embarrassing  for  Allison,  as  Paulk  did  not  wish  to  divide  time 
with  the  Congressman,  but  I  finally  prevailed  on  him  to  let 
Allison  have  from  7:30  to  8  o'clock,  and  he  could  take  another 
hour,  while  I  would  be  satisfied  with  half  an  hour  to  dose  the 
debate. 

The  court-house  was  packed  with  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and 
a  large  gang  of  Democratic  "  heelers,"  headed  by  Johnny  Arm- 
strong, the  editor  of  the  Lansing  Journal,  came  a  distance  of 
twelve  miles  with  the  avowed  purpose  of  preventing  me  from 
speaking,  because  of  the  previous  "  roastings "  I  had  given 
Paulk  and  the  "  copperheads." 


166  JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 

Mr.  Allison  began  his  speech  in  due  time  upon  the  State  issues 
and  the  contemplated  reconstruction  laws  that  were  about  to  be 
enacted  in  Congress.  His  remarks  were  calm,  solid,  and  direct. 
Speaking  of  striking  the  word  "  white  "  out  of  the  Constitution, 
he  said,  among  other  things : 

The  word  "white"  in  our  Constitution  is  now  obselete,  since 
the  Emancipation  Proclamation  of  President  Lincoln  knocked  the 
shackles  off  four  millions  of  slaves  and  lifted  them  into  the  sunlight 
of  freedom.  It  is  a  relic  of  a  tyrannical  oligarchy,  and  should  no 
more  pollute  or  disgrace  our  fundamental  legal  instrument,  but  be 
swept  away  to  the  other  rubbish  piles  of  Democracy. 

The  slave  of  yesterday  is  the  freeman  of  today,  and  he  must  and 
shall  be  protected  by  all  the  power  of  the  General  Government. 
Four  millions  of  these  recent  bondsmen  lift  their  hands  and  faces 
to  us  imploringly  to  take  them  out  of  the  slough  of  slavery  and 
ignorance  and  bear  them  up  to  the  high  plane  of  freedom.  Shall 
we  deny  the  wail  and  cry  of  humanity?  No!  Every  mortal  in  this 
grand  Nation  must  stand  equal  before  the  law,  and  the  noble  sol- 
diers who  bore  our  starry  flag  through  many  fierce  and  bloody 
battles  will  still  see  to  it  that  every  man  shall  be  protected  in  his 
inalienable  and  God-given  rights. 

These  were  brave  words  at  that  time  and  place,  and  the  black 
man,  North  or  South,  who  shall  ever  prove  recreant  to  the  lofty 
Lincoln,  the  eloquent  Phillips,  the  glorious  Garrison,  and  the  alert 
and  persistent  Allison  deserves  no  memorial  to  mark  his  remains. 

Mr.  Paulk  arose  and  attempted  to  reply  to  the  Congressman, 
but  his  argument  was  about  as  strong  as  a  bag  of  feathers  let 
loose  against  a  blizzard,  while  the  phalanx  of  facts  put  forth  by 
Mr.  Allison  remained  unanswerable. 

Turning  around,  the  old  gent  accused  me  of  being  an  inter- 
loper in  Iowa,  a  "  carpetbagger  "  from  Kentucky,  a  beardless 
presumption,  a  boy  without  a  residence,  and  nothing  but  my 
cheek  to  pay  taxes  upon ! 

After  this  broadside  shot  at  the  "  subscriber,"  I  rose  to  close 
the  debate.  I  had  found  out  a  good  many  things  against  the 
record  of  this  political  hack.  I  pictured  him  as  a  sutler  soldier, 
a  "  copperhead,"  "  Knight  of  the  Golden  Circle,"  and  a  former 


SENATOR  ALLISON.  167 

carpetbagger  from  Vermont,  who  turned  his  coat  when  he 
migrated  West  for  boodle,  beans,  and  barley.  In  fact,  I  ripped 
him  up  the  back  in  grand  shape  with  all  the  satire  and  invective 
that  a  fellow  "  raised  "  in  Kentucky  might  be  expected  to  indulge 
in.  My  crowd  cheered  to  the  echo,  but  the  Lansing  "  gang  " 
hissed,  yelled,  and  tried  their  best  to  howl  me  down,  and  per- 
sisted in  breaking  up  the  meeting,  but  Col.  Me  Adams  and  Cap- 
tain Granger,  with  a  platoon  of  recently  discharged  soldiers, 
hustled  the  leaders  of  the  riot  out  of  the  court-house,  and  old 
Paulk,  their  leader,  followed  in  red-faced  disgust,  leaving  me 
master  of  the  situation  and  in  charge  of  the  fine  audience. 

Walking  over  to  the  hotel,  after  the  meeting,  Mr.  Allison 
asked  me  how  I  could  expect  to  be  elected  in  a  Democratic 
county  of  more  than  300  majority.  I  replied  that  I  did  not 
expect  to  be  elected,  but  to  reduce  the  majority  and  pester  and 
worry  the  "  copperhead  "  heathens  to  the  best  of  my  ability; 
and  I  further  remarked  that  the  "  doughfaces "  of  the  North 
and  "guerrillas"  of  the  South  had  barely  enough  courage  to 
linger  in  the  rear  and  assassinate,  but  not  enough  to  go  the  front 
and  fight  like  gentlemen  and  soldiers,  and  the  boys  who  wore 
the  "  blue  "  and  those  who  wore  the  "  gray  "  had  an  utter  con- 
tempt for  the  "  fire  in  the  rear  "  phalanx,  and  mankind  would 
always  despise  assassins. 

Allison  coincided  with  my  impulsive  statements  and  re- 
marked :  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  after  the  election  ?  " 
"I'm  going  to  resume  the  study  of  law  if  I  can  find  some 
lawyer  to  furnish  me  a  desk  and  a  split-bottom  chair,  with 
Blackstone,  Kent,  Chitty,  Greenleaf,  et  al"  He  laughed,  and 
said  "  Well,  good-night ;  come  down  to  Dubuque  after  you're 
counted  out,  and  I'll  try  and  find  you  a  corner." 

The  day  after  the  vote  was  announced,  having  lost  all  my 
enthusiasm  in  the  election,  I  embarked  on  the  fine  steamer 
Gray  Eagle,  at  Lansing,  and  proceeded  to  the  city  of  Dubuque. 
Standing  on  the  hurricane  deck  of  the  steamer  as  she  swept 
away  from  the  wharf,  and  rounded  toward  the  bald  bluff  of 


168  JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 

South'  Lansing,  I  breathed  a  sigh  of  regret  at  leaving  relatives, 
pupils,  and  friends,  where  youth  and  love  had  mingled  in  th-.» 
scene,  and  confidence  and  ambition  cast  a  glow  of  supreme 
happiness  through  the  halls  of  memory.  Some  very  dear  friends 
are  yet  living  in  Iowa,  who  may  call  to  mind  the  scenes  I  'have 
depicted ;  and,  perhaps,  in  the  evening  twilight,  when  the  walk- 
ing shadows  of  night  climb  the  river  bluffs,  they  may  recount 
to  their  children  and  friends  the  romantic  career  of  a  country 
pedagogue  and  would-be  legislator. 

Arriving  in  Dubuque,  I  called  at  the  law  office  of  Mr.  Allison, 
the  Congressman  I  met  in  the  late  canvass.  I  told  him  of  my 
desire  to  continue  the  study  of  law,  which  had  been  interrupted 
by  the  war.  He  at  once  secured  me  a  clerkship  in  the  office  of 
Henry  A.  Wiltz,  the  United  States  surveyor  general  for  Iowa 
and  Wisconsin,  at  the  same  time  tendering  the  use  of  his  books 
and  office. 

I  spent  the  winter  of  1866  and  the  summer  and  fall  of  the 
same  year  in  the  diligent  study  of  the  law,  pondering  on  the 
wisdom  of  Blackstone,  Chitty,  Kent,  Parsons,  and  Greenleaf, 
with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  youth  and  ambition,  receiving  my 
license  to  practice  as  an  attorney  in  the  courts  of  Iowa  on  the 
nth  of  November,  1866. 

The  memories  that  cluster  about  Dubuque  can  never  be  for- 
gotten, and  the  friends  that  assisted  me  in  the  old  Julian  build- 
ing in  the  study  of  law  present  themselves  today  in  the  form 
and  appearance  of  yesterday. 

Mr.  George  Crane  and  Capt.  T.  Palmer  Rood  were  the  law 
partners  of  Mr.  Allison,  and  while  he  was  mostly  engrossed 
in  political  calculations,  they  attended  strictly  to  the  details  and 
work  of  an  important  firm.  Mr.  Crane  was  a  man  of  fine  judg- 
ment, and  had  the  entire  confidence  of  his  clients  and  the  respect 
of  the  bar,  which  numbered  some  of  the  best  lawyers  in  Iowa, 
such  as  Bissell,  Shiras,  Adams,  Mulkern,  Samuels,  Knight, 
Wilson,  Cram,  Henderson,  Cooley,  O'Donnell,  and  a  rare 
genius  named  Charles  McKenzie. 


SENATOR   ALLISON.  169 

Senator  Allison  was  appointed  a  colonel  on  the  staff  of  Gov- 
ernor Kirkwood  soon  after  Fort  Sumter  was  fired  upon  in  the 
spring  of  1 86 1.  He  rendered  invaluable  services  in  enlisting, 
organizing,  and  equipping  Iowa  troops  for  the  battlefield.  His 
energy  and  patriotism  went  hand  in  hand  night  and  day,  until 
the  Hawkeye  State  filled  its  quota,  and  gave  to  President  Lin- 
coln, for  the  defense  of  the  Union,  a  corps  of  gallant  soldiers 
that  may  have  been  equaled  by  some  of  their  comrades,  but 
never  surpassed  by  any  on  the  great  battlefields  of  the  Re- 
bellion. 

I  have  known  Colonel  Allison  intimately  for  thirty  years,  and 
I  can  say,  in  all  candor,  that  I  never  met  a  public  man,  and  I 
met  and  knew  many  national  characters,  who  could  work  so 
silently,  patiently,  and  effectively  as  he  has  in  all  the  varied  an<^ 
complicated  duties  that  fell  to  his  lot.  Duty  and  work  are  his 
watchwords,  with  faith  and  friendship  the  main  elements  in  his 
close-knit  composition.  Like  the  coral  insect,-  he  labors  silently 
and  incessantly,  paying  particular  attention  to  details,  and  you 
never  hear  or  see  his  work  until  it  is  complete. 

As  a  financier  he  has  no  superior  in  the  United  States  Congress. 
For  years  the  impress  of  his  financial  genius  has  been  in- 
grafted on  the  internal  revenue  and  cusiom  laws  of  the  Nation 
through  the  Committee  of  Ways  and  Means  of  the  House. 
For  nearly  eighteen  years  in  the  Senate,  through  the  Finance 
and  Appropriation  Committees,  he,  with  Morrell  and  Sherman, 
have  been  the  wheel  horses  of  practical  financial  legislation. 

I  say  it  without  fear  of  contradiction,  and  his  compeers  I 
believe  will  agree  with  me,  that  Allison  is  the  best  all-around 
equipped  man  in  the  United  Congress  for  go-ahead,  practical, 
business,  common  sense,  greenback,  gold,  and  silver  legislation. 
He  never  made  a  friend  that  he  lost ;  and  many  a  political  foe  has 
he  turned  into  friendly  accord.  He  never  made  a  personal  or 
political  promise  that  he  did  not  fulfill,  sooner  or  later,  and  those 
who  know  him  best  love  him  most.  He  is  modest,  laborious, 
and  shrewd,  and  has  a  very  fine  conception  that  this  is  a  Nation 


I7O  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

with  a  great  big  N — where  luxuries,  internal  and  external,  should 
be  taxed  liberally  to  defray  the  expenses  of  the  Government,, 
and  taxes  on  the  necessaries  of  life  lightened  as  much  as  com- 
mon sense  and  justice  demands. 

Allison  is  conservative,  on  general  principles,  but  when  you 
arouse  him  on  a  special  point,  where  the  interest  of  the  Nation 
is  at  stake,  he  throws  aside  his  velvet  cloak  and  steps  into  the 
arena  like  a  Roman  gladiator  and  hurls  javelins  of  radical  logic 
at  his  opponents.  He  has  innate  pride  without  vanity,  con- 
tinuousness,  without  cringing,  manhood  without  mediocraty 
and  absolute  bravery  without  any  bravado.  Around  the  social 
board  he  is  the  toast  of  his  friends,  as  tender  and  kind  as  a 
woman  and  as  forgiving  as  a  philosopher.  Like  Grant,  he  is 
true  to  his  friends,  and  once  inside  the  circle  of  his  confidence, 
no  power  on  earth  can  alienate  his  heart  or  chill  the  sentiment. 
of  his  soul  for  those  he  loves  and  admires. 


ORATIONS. 


I. 

HECTOR. 

[A  Newfoundland  Dog.    Kentucky  :  1857.] 

MY  DEAR  SCHOOMATES  :  We  come  to  praise  and  bury  Hector. 
For  many  long  years  he  has  been  our  daily  and  nightly  com- 
panion, sharing  with  us  the  sports  of  school  and  our  truant 
rambles  to  "  Conners'  swimming  hole,"  at  the  bend  of  the 
creek. 

Hector  was  descended  from  an  illustrious  family  of  New- 
foundland, where  arctic  winds,  drifting  snows,  and  floating  ice 
fill  up  the  measure  of  the  fleeting  year.  He  was  stricken  with 
pneumonia  on  Christmas  Day,  and  peacefully  passed  away  as 
the  old  year  lapsed  into  the  realm  of  shadows. 

Spring,  with  her  young  wild  flowers ;  Summer,  with  her  red- 
ripe  apples  and  blackberries ;  Autumn,  with  her  forest  nuts,  and 
wild,  old  Winter,  with  his  hoary  locks,  found  Hector  by  our 
side,  ready  at  all  times  to  lead  or  protect  us. 

No  contumely,  sticks,  stones,  or  abuse  could  chill  the  warmth, 
of  his  morning  greeting  or  the  friendly  wag  of  his  expressive 
ears,  nose,  and  tail.  Although  often  rebuked  and  humiliated 
by  our  thoughtless  conduct,  he  held  a  forgiving  spirit  and  ex- 
tended his  great,  black  paw  as  a  token  of  sincere  reconciliation. 
We  shared  with  him  our  lunches,  and  in  moonlight  hours,  when, 
we  played  "  hide-and-seek,"  he  led  the  town  dogs  in  vociferous 
glee  when  we  ran  to  touch  the  base ! 

At  every  frolic,  fight,  or  fire,  he  was  first  on  deck,  and  the 
town  marshal  often  souht  his  aid  to  accelerate  the  movements 


172  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

of  lazy,  vagrant  hogs  that  made  the  street  their  forage  pasture 
and  the  sidewalk  their  sty. 

On  election  day,  when  crowds  of  town  and  country  revelers 
grew  hilarious  at  the  saloon  or  drugstore,  Hector  might  be  seen 
with  dignified  mien  and  sober  countenance  contemplating  the 
the  weakness  and  folly  of  lordly  man,  who  got  drunk  and  did 
not  have  as  much  sense  as  a  dog !  How  often  have  we  seen 
him  with  reins  in  his  mouth,  carrying  on  his  back  little  Nellie 
Gray  or  Billy  Bascom,  and  sometimes  trotting  before  a  cart 
to  the  delight  of  the  rider  and  the  admiration  of  the  public. 
His  master,  the  tavern  keeper,  and  old  Mose,  the  stable  boy, 
will  greatly  miss  their  faithful  watch-dog,  but  we  boys-will  never 
again  find  such  a  friend. 

Hector  has  passed  away  from  the  sorrows  and  shadows  of 
life  to  the  sunlight  of  a  glorious  death.  His  generous  spirit 
reigns  where  suns  and  stars  shine  eternal,  and  where  the  cruel 
midgets  of  mankind  cannot  practice  upon  him  their  ingrati- 
tude. Hector  had  not  time  enough  to  be  a  hypocrite.  He  was 
simply  an  honest  dog.  He  saw  things  direct  without  any  of  the 
trappings  of  deceit,  rose  before  the  dawn,  held  up  his  heart  and 
head  at  high  noon,  and  when  the  sun  went  down  over  the  waters 
of  Slate,  he  repaired  to  his  quarters  at  the  tavern  like  a  decent 
•iog  and  partook  of  such  biscuits,  beef,  and  bones  as  black  Mose 
manipulated  for  his  edification. 

While  Pharisees  preached,  Hector  practiced  what  he  felt,  and 
the  poorest  person  in  rags  could  always  command  his  society  and 
depend  on  his  protection.  He  was  none  of  your  stuck-up, 
parlor,  dilletante  dogs  that  needed  an  introduction  before  taking 
you  into  "  their  set."  No,  indeed ;  we  knew  him  as  an  every- 
day dog,  wearing  his  curly  hair  on  his  broad  back  as  God  had 
fashioned  it,  and  giving  his  cheering  voice  to  all  our  pleasures. 

Hector  had  a  clean  conscience  for  a  creed,  and  divine  instinct 
for  his  rule  of  life.  He  was  a  rough  ashler,  cracked  from  the 
quarry  of  truth,  and  stood  as  a  shining  example  to  the  dogs  of 
the  town,  that  regarded  him  as  a  leader  in  all  their  moonlight, 


ORATIONS.  173 

midnight  meetings,  when  holding  canine  conventions  beneath 
the  sparkling  stars  and  magic  moon.  Hector  was  a  good 
neighbor,  a  staunch  friend,  and  never  garnished  his  voice  or 
deeds  with  the  hideous  harangues  of  hypocrisy  or  ingrati- 
tude. 

Lord  Byron's  lines  to  his  dog,  "  Boatswain,"  at  the  expense 
of  mankind,  might  well  be  uttered  over  the  remains  of  Hector. 

"  When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth, 
Unknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth, 
The  sculptor's  art  exhausts  the  pomp  of  woe, 
And  storied  nrns  record  who  rests  below  ; 
When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is  seen, 
Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  should  have  been ; 
But  the  poor  dog ;  in  life  the  firmest  friend, 
The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend, 
Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master's  own, 
Who  labors,  fights,  lives,  breathes  for  him  alone, 
Unhonored  falls,  unnoticed  all  his  worth, 
Denied  in  Heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth  ; 
While  man,  vain  insect,  hopes  to  be  forgiven, 
And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  heaven. 
Oh,  man !  thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour, 
Debased  by  slavery,  or  corrupt  by  power, 
Who  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee  with  disgust, 
Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust! 
Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a  cheat, 
Thy  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  deceit, 
By  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name, 
Each  kindred  brute  might  bid  thee  blush  for  shame. 
Ye  who  perchance  behold  this  simple  urn, 
Pass  on — it  honors  none  you  wish  to  mourn  ; 
To  mark  a  friend's  remains  these  stones  arise, 
I  never  knew  but  one ;  and  here  he  lies  !  " 


II. 

DECORATION  DAY. 

We  stand  upon  the  hilltop  of  patriotism  to  pay  truthful  trib- 
ute to  the  memory  of  our  loyal  dead. 

Let  us,  the  survivors  of  "  grim-visaged  war,"  renew  our  de- 


174  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

votion  to  the  great  Republic  and  swear  by  the  blood  of  our  dear 
old  comrades  that  the  "  Red,  White,  and  Blue,"  under  which 
they  fought  and  died,  shall  symbolize  forever — all  freedom  for 
all  men ! 

Rebellion,  with  its  horrible  visage,  has  gone  like  the  echo  of 
a  vanished  dream,  and  its  voteries  are  buried  forever  in  the  dark 
waters  of  oblivion,  while  that  glorious  flag  for  which  our  com- 
rades fought,  waves  triumphant  over  a  consolidated  Nation. 

The  Union  is  absolutely  secure,  and  no  domestic  or  foreign 
foe  shall  ever  again  jeopordize  the  integrity  of  the  Republic. 
The  pines  of  Maine,  the  palmettoes  of  South  Carolina,  and  the 
orange  trees  of  California  have  made  a  tripartite  bower  over  a 
united  country  that  shall  shelter  and  protect  all  the  people  as 
long  as  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific,  with  their  bounding  billows, 
beat  against  our  rock-bound  shores. 

The  debt  of  gratitude  due  the  battle  warrior  can  never  be 
fully  liquidated.  The  Nation  that  forgets  its  soldiers  and  sailors 
should  be  erased  from  the  face  of  the  globe,  and  over  its  remains 
should  settle  the  stagnant  waters  of  oblivion. 

The  progress  of  the  world  has  been  carried  forward  on  the 
point  of  the  bayonet,  and  the  flash  of  the  soldier's  sword  has 
lit  up  the  pathway  of  liberty  and  terrified  the  tools  of  tyranny. 

Alexander,  with  fifty  thousand  men  formed  into  the  irre- 
sistable  Macedonian  phalanx,  conquered  a  million  of  Persians 
at  the  battle  of  Arbela,  overran  the  Oriental  world,  carrying  the 
letters  and  architecture  of  immortal  Greece  into  the  very  heart 
of  Asia,  making  princes  and  potentates  the  playthings  of  his 
vaulting  ambition  and  writing  his  name  on  the  highest  pinnacle 
of  military  splendor. 

Monuments  and  cities  arose  in  the  track  of  his  victorious 
army  like  waterspouts  from  a  stormy  ocean,  and  he  seemed 
to  wield  the  wand  of  the  Magi  and  rub  the  lamp  of  Aladdin 
with  the  facility  of  a  necromancer  and  universal  genius,  who 
never  knew  defeat  until  the  sparkling  wine  of  the  Hercules  cup 
sent  his  sighing  soul  to  the  realms  of  Pluto. 


ORATIONS.  175 

Caeser  flashed  into  the  Roman  world  like  a  brilliant  meteor 
in  a  midnight  sky,  lighting  up  the  pathway  of  the  Empire  with 
the  flashing  swords  and  lances  of  his  loyal  legions,  that  scaled 
the  sky-kissing  Alps,  camped  under  the  shadows  of  the  pyra- 
mids, and  carried  his  victorious  eagles  through  the  forests  of 
Germany,  Gaul,  and  Brittain. 

And  then  turning  his  invincible  legions  on  Rome,  he  crossed  the 
Rubicon,  marched  triumphantly  into  the  imperial  city,  routing 
Pompey  and  his  senatorial  compeers  into  Spain,  Greece,  and 
Egypt,  until  at  last  the  head  of  his  great  rival  was  presented  as 
a  bloody  offering  to  his  towering  ambition.  As  soldier,  states- 
man, orator,  historian,  and  poet  he  will  be  grandly  mentioned 
down  the  rolling  ages  to  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time,  while 
Brutus  and  Cassius,  his  cowardly  assassins,  will  be  mentioned 
only  to  be  execrated  for  their  dastard  perfidy  and  ingratitude. 

Napoleon,  the  classic  Corsican,  has  left  his  indellible  foot- 
prints on  the  sands  of  time,  and  so  long  as  Lodi,  Austerlitz, 
Marengo,  and  the  fatal  Waterloo  are  remembered,  this  giant 
military  and  civic  genius  will  be  admired  by  millions  of  man- 
kind. 

He  rises  before  us — 

"  Like  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form  ; 
Swells  from  the  vale  and  midway  leaves  the  storm  ; 
Though  'round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread — 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head !  " 

And  yet,  Alexander,  Caeser,  and  Napoleon  fought  for  per- 
sonal glory,  conquest,  and  Empire,  rearing  a  hecatomb  of  human 
bones  as  a  bloody  mount  for  their  demoniac  and  insane  ambi- 
tion. 

But,  in  our  own  God-given  Republic,  Washington,  Jackson, 
and  Grant  fought  for  a  Government  of  the  people,  by  the  peo- 
ple, and  for  the  people. 

Lincoln,  by  a  single  stroke  of  his  inspired  pen,  erased  the  dark 
blot  of  slavery  from  the  escutcheon  of  the  Nation,  freeing  four 
millions  of  bondsmen,  and  yet,  after  all,  it  was  the  soldier  Grant 


176  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

and  his  comrades  that  punctuated  with  his  sword  the  strength 
and  might  of  Lincoln's  pen. 

Here  rest  the  grand  warriors  who  swung  the  trip-hammer  of 
battle  that  smashed  the  red-hot  blazing  bloom  of  the  Con- 
federacy, and  knocked  off  forever  the  galling  shackles  of  the 
slave.  Here  sleep  the  brilliant  officers  and  brave  men  who 
sacrificed  themselves  on  the  bloody  altar  of  their  country  and 
died  for  the  principles  of  heaven-born  freedom. 

Here  let  us  dedicate  an  everlasting  temple  to  heroism.  This 
green  sward  shall  be  a  mausoleum  of  heroic  hearts,  its  dome  the 
bending  heavens,  and  its  altar  candles  the  watching  stars  of 
God.  Year  after  year  let  us  assemble  at  this  mecca,  and  kneel- 
ing by  the  graves  of  brave  men,  let  the  living  clasp  hands  in 
fervency  of  friendship  and  strew  sweet  flowers  upon  the  mould- 
ering remains  of  our  loyal  dead. 

A  few  more  days  and  years  will  end  our  earthly  career,  but 
when  we  look,  for  the  last  time,  upon  that  grand  old  flag,  with 
its  celestial  colors,  we  will  have  the  soul-lit  satisfaction  that  our 
labor  and  blood,  and  that  of  our  dear  dead  comrades,  sustained 
it  on  the  field  of  slaughter  and  transmitted  it  to  posterity 
without  a  stripe  extinguished  or  a  star  lost  from  its  brtlliant 
folds. 

OLD  SOLDIERS. 
[Dedicated  to  George  U.  Morris  Post,  G.  A.  R.,  Georgetown,  D.  C.] 

Our  ranks  are  growing  thinner,  every  year, 
And  Death  is  still  a  winner,  every  year ; 

Yet,  we  still  must  stick  together, 

Like  the  toughest  kind  of  leather, 
And  in  any  kind  of  weather,  every  year. 

Our  comrades  have  departed,  every  year, 
They  leave  us  broken  hearted,  every  year ; 

But  their  spirits  fondly  greet  us 

And  they  constantly  entreat  us 
To  come,  that  they  may  meet  us,  every  year. 


ORATIONS.  177 

Our  steps  are  growing  slower,  every  year, 
Pale  Death  is  still  a  mower,  every  year ; 

Yet,  we  faced  him  in  the  battle 

Amid  the  musket's  rattle, 
And  defied  his  final  edict,  every  year. 

We  are  growing  old  and  lonely,  every  year ; 
We  have  recollection  only,  every  year  ; 

And  we  bled  for  this  grand  Nation 

On  many  a  field  and  station 
And  with  any  kind  of  ration,  every  year. 

Many  people  may  forget  us,  every  year, 
And  our  enemies  may  fret  us,  every  year  ; 

But,  while  onward  we  are  drifting, 

Our  souls  with  hope  are  lifting 
To  heavenly  scenes  still  shifting,  every  year. 

In  the  May-time  of  the  flowers,  every  year, 
We  shall  live  in  golden  hours,  every  year  ; 

And  our  deeds  be  sung  in  story, 

Down  the  ages  growing  hoary 
With  a  blaze  of  living  glory,  every  year ! 

Leonadas,  at  Thermopalea;  Horatio,  at  the  bridge,  and 
Wincklereid,  at  the  ice-bound  Swiss  pass,  were  not  inspired 
by  more  lofty  courage  than  Grant  in  the  Wilderness,  Sheridan 
at  Winchester,  and  Sherman  in  his  March  to  the  Sea. 

The  sunlight  of  liberty  shone  on  their  brow,  and  the  love  of 
home  and  country  centered  in  their  hearts.  Monumental  mar- 
ble, granite,  and  bronze  will  long  perpetuate  their  glorious  deeds, 
but  their  name  and  fame  at  last  rest  in  the  hearts  of  the  people 
and  shall  linger  as  long  as  suns  and  stars  sparkle  in  their  track- 
less spheres. 

A  thousand  years  my  own  Columbia  shall  be  thy  portion, 
until  one  grand  universal  Republic  shall  bless  the  world 
and  its  mammouth  pillars  rest  on  the  broken  bones  of  mon- 
archy. 

The  self-styled  lords  of  royalty  must  dismount  from  the  backs 


178  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

of  the  people  and  work  and  walk  in  the  ranks  of  mankind  or 
depart  forever  from  the  surface  of  the  globe. 

The  electric  lights  of  science  has  lit  up  the  rotten  nooks  of 
imperial  dinasties  and  taught  the  people  of  all  lands  that  those 
who  pretend  to  rule  by  Divine  right  are  but  the  leperous  re- 
mains of  robber  barons  and  licentious  queens. 

The  shining  dome  of  our  National  Capitol,  speaking  through 
the  lips  of  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  calls  to  the  down-trodden  of 
foreign  lands  to  fall  into  line  and  march  westward,  where  the 
star  of  empire  takes  its  course,  and  where  the  American  Con- 
tinent, with  all  its  outlying  islands,  shall  acknowledge  no 
master  but  the  American  Congress  and  no  flag  but  the  Stars  and 
Stripes! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beckons  ; 
Forward,  forward,  let  us  range — 
Let  the  great  world  spin  forever 
Down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

We  must  build  up  the  strongest  navy  that  the  world  has  ever 
known  and  erect  coast  defences  that  will  resist  all  the  forces 
that  monarchy  can  send  against  us,  and  above  all  we  must  in- 
graft on  our  system  of  public  schools,  as  well  as  in  our  colleges 
and  universities,  a  perfect  military  education,  where  companies 
of  soldiers  and  sailors  may  be  graduated  each  year  with  the 
training  of  West  Point  and  Annapolis. 

When  this  is  done  the  grasping,  robbing,  and  murdering 
propensity  of  monarchy  will  respect  the  Monroe  doctrine  in 
letter  and  spirit  and  let  this  Republic  forever  alone. 

Who  will  care  for  these  loved  mounds  when  we  are  gone  ? 
Who  will  then  strew  roses  and  plant  bright  flowers  ?  Other 
patriotic  hands  of  brave  men  and  fair  women  will  take  up  the 
roll  of  duty,  and  even  when  all  but  liberty  has  perished  from 
the  earth,  the  robin  and  the  blue  bird,  the  jay  and  the  mocking 
bird,  will  warble  at  sunrise  a  reveille  over  the  green  sod  that 
wraps  their  sacred  clay.  Nature  herself  will  deck  the  graves  of 
our  fallen  comrades,  and  the  winds  of  Heaven  will  chant  a 


ORATIONS.  179 

requiem  to  their  memory,  and  kiss  the  loved  spot  where  valor 
sleeps. 

Thousands  of  our  dear,  loved  comrades  rest  in  unknown 
graves  far  away  from  the  loved  ones  at  home.  They  slumber 
in  the  land  of  strangers,  where  the  tears  of  love  cannot  moisten 
the  green  shroud  that  mantles  their  ashes.  But  if  no  kind  hand 
is  there  to  strew  flowers,  or  loved  eye  to  shed  the  tear  of  sorrow, 
there  is  One  that  reigns  among  the  eternal  stars  that  daily 
floods  the  unknown  grave  with  sunshine,  and  nightly  waters 
the  budding  wild  flowers  with  dews  from  Heaven. 

Let  Summer  send  her  golden  sunbeams  down — 

In  graceful  salutations  for  the  dead, 

And  Autumn's  host  of  leaflets  brown, 

"  Break  ranks,"  above  the  fallen  soldier's  head, 

And  we  survivors  of  the  fearful  strife, 

While  gathered  here  around  their  sacred  clay, 

Let  us  anew  pledge  honor,  fortune,  life, 

That  from  our  flag  no  star  shall  pass  away. 

We  reverently  swear  by  all  we  love, 

By  all  we  are,  and  all  we  hope  to  be, 

Yon  starry  flag,  man's  steadfast  friend  shall  prove 

And  wave  forever  o'er  the  brave  and  free  ! 


III. 
EMANCIPATION  DAY. 

In  August,  1873, 1  delivered  the  following  oration  before  five 
thousand  colored  people  at  St.  Louis  on  the  occasion  of  their 
Emancipation  celebration : 

FELLOW  CITIZENS  :  The  emancipation  of  an  enslaved  race  is 
a  theme  fit  to  be  couched  in  noble  eloquence,  monumented  in 
bronze,  and  sent  to  the  latest  posterity  in  poetry  and  song. 
From  the  earliest  dawn  of  creation,  when  the  morning  stars 
sang  together,  human  thoughts  and  human  action  lingered  at  the 
shrine  of  freedom;  and. even  in  the  night  of  Egyptian  darkness 
and  bondage,  the  sweet  paens  of  liberty  sounded  in  the  soul  of 


180  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

man  and  found  a  responsive  echo  in  the  celestial  realms  of  the 
angels. 

God,  in  his  infinite  wisdom,  created  all  men  free,  and  it  was 
only  tyrants  who  could  forge  the  chains  of  slavery  and  find  con- 
solation in  the  sharp  music  of  the  lash.  Ignorance,  selfishness, 
and  fear  make  a  man  a  tyrant,  while  intelligence,  benevolence, 
and  love  fit  him  for  the  priceless  blessings  of  freedom  in  this 
world,  and  open  a  way  to  his  eternal  home  beyond  the  sun  and 
stars. 

The  celebration  of  this  day  will  bring  vividly  to  your  mind  the 
trials  and  tribulations  and  victories  achieved  by  your  race  in  the 
West  India  Islands,  where  the  genius  of  Toussaint  L'Ouverture 
held  at  bay  the  cruelties  of  the  proud  Spaniard,  and  even  foiled 
the  expections  of  the  great  Napoleon.  The  pen  and  voice  of 
L'Ouverture  exposed  the  flimsy  pretense  of  slavery,  and  his 
flashing  sword  cut  in  twain  the  Gordian  knot  of  despotism  and 
initiated  the  first  successful  emancipation  movement.  Today, 
in  the  mountain  cabins  of  Hayti  and  San  Domingo,  the  name 
of  this  apostle  of  liberty  is  sounded  with  love  and  veneration, 
and  as  the  circling  years  go  by,  the  fame  of  Toussaint  L'Ouver- 
ture will  grow  brighter  until  every  human  heart  pulsates  with  the 
sublime  sentiments  that  actuated  him  in  life,  and  made  him  a 
conqueror  even  in  the  torturing  hours  of  death  in  the  dungeon 
of  the  tyrant.  The  clanking  chains  of  Napoleon  and  the  excru- 
ciating pangs  of  cold,  thirst,  and  hunger  could  not  subdue  the 
proud  spirit  of  the  black  warrior  and  statesman.  His  free  soul 
and  glorious  nature  triumphed  over  the  grave,  and  long  after 
you  and  I  are  consigned  to  the  dust  from  whence  we  sprung, 
this  hero  of  San  Domingo  will  live  in  monumental  greatness, 
and  inspire  the  world  with  his  example. 

L'Ouverture  laid  broad  and  deep  the  foundation  of  the  Re- 
public of  San  Domingo,  and  the  day  is  near  when  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  shall  float  over  the  land  he  died  to  save.  God  will 
work  in  his  mysterious  way,  until  the  continent  of  Africa  shall 
be  disenthralled  from  the  darkness  of  ignorance  and  slavery, 


ORATIONS.  l8l 

when  one  universal  Republic  shall  bless  the  world  and  realize 
the  fondest  hopes  of  the  human  heart.  The  wail  of  oppressed 
humanity  comes  sounding  down  the  centuries ;  the  cry  for  lib- 
erty and  light  is  wafted  to  us  in  every  breeze  that  blows  from 
ocean's  boundless  shores. 

"  Hark!  our  brothers  call, 
From  Greenland's  icy  mountains, 
From  India's  coral  strand  ; 
Where  Afric's  sunny  fountains 
Roll  down  their  golden  sand. 
From  many  an  ancient  river  ; 
From  many  a  palmy  plain  ; 
They  call  us  to  deliver 
Their  land  from  error's  chain." 

In  the  year  1620,  two  hundred  and  fifty-three  years  ago, 
forty-five  slaves  were  landed  on  the  James  River  in  Virginia, 
forced  from  the  coast  of  Africa  and  sold  into  bondage  to  cultivate 
the  plantations  of  the  Old  Dominion.  From  this  "  direful 
spring"  Columbia  has  suffered  more  unnumbered  woes  than 
Achilles'  wrath  brought  to  Greece.  I  can  see  now  in  the  jungles 
of  Africa  the  fierce  spirit  of  Caucasian  cupidity  hunting  down 
the  first  load  of  human  freight.  The  simple  life  of  the  black 
man  in  his  native  wilds  knew  no  master  but  his  God,  pictured 
in  the  rising  sun,  and  smiling  in  the  blue  waters  of  the  Nile  and 
Ganges. 

I  see  that  fatal  ship  stealing  quietly  out  from  the  golden  sands 
of  Africa,  speeding  on  its  way  to  America,  freighted  with  human 
misery  and  terrible  grief.  Would  to  God  that  she  had  sunk  to 
the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  and  buried  forever,  even  the  just  and 
the  unjust,  ere  her  prow  touched  the  shores  of  Virginia,  and 
began  that  reign  of  slavery  that  cursed  our  country  and  culmi- 
nated in  the  great  conflict  of  1861. 

Great  crimes  deserve  great  punishment,  and  fearful  has  been 
our  retribution.  Two  millions  of  human  lives  were  sacrificed 
to  purchase  the  emancipation  of  American  slavery,  and  today 
the  tears  of  the  widows  and  orphans  flow  at  the  mention  of 


182  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

those  loved  hearts  that  went  down  into  the  dark  valley  of  death 
in  the  musical  whiz  of  the  Minie  rifle,  or  the  roar  of  the  Rod- 
man gun. 

The  colored  people  of  this  Nation  have  great  cause  to  boast 
of  the  deeds  of  their  heroes.  The  first  blood  shed  in  the  Amer- 
ican Revolution  was  that  of  Crispus  Attucks,  of  Boston,  Mass. 
In  the  Massacre  of  March  5,  1770,  in  an  assault  upon  the 
British  soldiers  he  fell  for  freedom  and  his  native  land.  The 
blood  of  the  slave  has  nourished  the  tree  ot  liberty,  and  under 
its  wide-spreading  branches  you  sit  today  basking  in  the  sun- 
shine of  equal  rights,  proud  of  your  citizenship  and  ready  at  all 
times  to  strike  for — 

"  The  land  of  the  free 
And  the  home  of  the  brave !  " 

The  freedom  of  American  slavery  required  long  years  of 
education  and  toil.  Adams,  Jefferson,  Clay,  Garrison,  and  Phil- 
lips dug  from  the  mountains  the  crude  ore  of  liberty,  but  it  was 
left  to  Lincoln,  Seward,  and  Grant  to  put  it  through  the  furnace- 
heat  of  the  Rebellion  and  forge  out  the  trip-hammer  that 
knocked  forever  the  rusty  shackles  from  four  millions  of 
slaves.  The  emancipation  proclamation  of  Abraham  Lincoln 
broke  the  back  of  the  Rebellion.  Its  thunder-tones  will  go 
sounding  down  the  ages,  and  the  lightning  flash  of  each  sen- 
tence will  irradiate  the  rugged  road  of  the  human  race  and 
light  up  the  darkest  nooks  of  imperial  government.  The  mem- 
ory of  Lincoln  will  live  as  long  as  human  hearts  pulsate  with 
love  of  liberty. 

Rooted  firmly  and  deeply  in  the  rifted  rocks  of  time  shall  be 
his  temple  of  everlasting  glory.  The  mountains  of  Columbia 
lifting  their  heads  into  the  boundless  blue,  and  the  murmuring 
rivers  of  the  continent,  shall  mingle  forever  with  his  fame,  but 
the  noblest  monument  to  his  memory  are  the  four  million 
shackles  struck  from  the  galling  limbs  of  the  bondsmen.  Already 
the  lesson  of  the  proclamation  has  found  its  way  to  the  plains 


ORATIONS.  183 

of  the  Amazon  and  the  bleak  regions  of  the  Ural  Mountains, 
where  twenty  million  Russian  serfs  breathe  at  last  the  pure  air 
of  freedom.  So  shall  the  example  of  the  immortal  Lincoln 
continue  to  bless  the  human  race,  until,  crowned  with  the  dia- 
dem of  liberty,  we  shall  acknowledge  the  image  of  God  in  all 
men,  and  pluck  from  the  calendar  of  our  hearts  the  demon  of 
caste  and  persecution. 

From  my  earliest  years  I  hated  the  very  name  of  slavery. 
The  word  burned  upon  my  tongue  and  blistered  in  my  heart. 
Even  as  a  boy,  in  the  land  of  Clay,  I  sighed  for  the  hour  to 
strike  at  the  hell -born  iniquity ;  and  when  the  clash  of  arms  came 
I  went  out  to  battle  for  the  perpetuation  of  the  Union  and  the 
freedom  of  the  slave.  The  first  shot  at  Sumter  sounded  the 
death -knell  of  slavery,  and  it  will  echo  in  the  hearts  of  genera- 
tions yet  unborn,  until  every  land  and  clime  hears  the  sweet  songs 
of  liberty,  and  joins  in  the  chorus  of  equality. 

Your  own  stout  arms  and  valiant  hearts  struggled  in  the  cause 
of  freedom.  Port  Hudson  and  Fort  Wagner  will  long  be  re- 
membered as  among  the  bloodiest  battles  of  the  war,  where  the 
Fir£t  Louisiana  and  Fifty-fourth  Massachusetts  colored  regi- 
ments fought  with  terrible  desperation,  and  made  a  page  in 
American  history  that  will  transmit  the  glory  of  the  black  warrior 
to  the  last  symbol  of  recorded  time. 

Since  the  close  of  the  war  the  behavior  of  the  black  man  has 
been  truly  remarkable,  for  never  in  the  history  of  the  world 
did  men  come  up  so  quick  out  of  the  dark  forests  of  ignorance 
and  bondage,  and  show  such  capacity  for  civil  life  and  consti- 
tutional freedom.  Lift  up  your  eyes  and  hearts  to  God,  and 
never  despair.  Seven  centuries  ago  the  Caucasian  race  was 
wandering  half  naked  in  the  black  forests  of  Germany,  and  the 
Scots  and  Picts  of  proud  Albion  were  little  above  the  wild  ani- 
mals that  furnished  their  food  and  raiment. 

In  the  Senate  of  the  United  States  and  Lower  House  of 
Congress,  representatives  of  your  race  have  sat  side  by  side 
with  white  men,  and  have  maintained  their  independence  and 


184  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

manhood.  Today  you  stand  upon  the  same  political  platform 
with  the  greatest  and  best  of  your  white  fellow  citizens,  and  even 
those  who  once  held  you  in  bondage  have  become  reconciled 
to  the  logic  of  events.  Forget,  if  you  can,  the  cruelties  of  slavery 
in  the  gratitude  you  owe  the  Nation  for  clothing  you  with  the 
inestimable  power  of  the  ballot — 

"  A  weapon  that  comes  down  as  still 
As  snow-flakes  falling  on  the  sod, 
And  executes  a  freeman's  will 
As  lightning  does  the  will  of  God  !  " 

In  conclusion,  let  me  impress  upon  you  the  great  importance 
of  temperance,  economy,  education,  and  peaceful  conduct 
toward  your  neighbors.  Whether  as  laborers,  mechanics, 
merchants,  or  professionals,  you  must  rely  upon  yourselves, 
and  by  untiring  perseverance  and  honesty  procure  a  home, 
where  the  blessings  of  peace  and  prosperity  shall  crown  the 
evening  of  life,  and  give  you  a  taste  of  that  immortal  happiness 
found  only  in  the  beautiful  land  around  the  white  throne  of 
Jehovah,  where  the  angels  always  sing  and  the  light  of  Hea,ven 
shines  eternal. 


IV. 
A  TOAST  TO  WOMAN. 

|At  a  Brooklyn  St.  Patrick's  Banquet.] 

Woman  is  a  great  subject.  I  cannot  imagine  why  you  should 
always  leave  her  until  one  of  the  last  of  the  list  of  toasts,  unless 
it  be  that  when  all  else  has  departed  man  naturally  flies  to 
woman  for  consolation.  The  most  endearing  words  are  sweet- 
heart, sister,  daughter,  wife,  mother,  and  the  keystone  to  this 
royal  arch  of  purity  and  love  is  woman.  The  touch  of  her 
warm  hand  lulls  the  sleeping  babe  to  sweet  repose,  the  glance 


ORATIONS.  185 

of  her  beaming  eye  thrills  the  soul  of  manhood,  and  in  the  golden 
sunlight  of  old  age  she  clings  with  undying  affection  to  the  object 
of  her  love.  Pure  and  patient  at  the  cradle,  faithful  and  endur- 
ing at  the  cross,  she  will  receive  the  crown  of  immortal  life 
beyond  the  sun  and  stars.  In  every  land  and  clime  the  advance- 
ment of  woman  points  to  the  pathway  of  civilization,  and, 
although  she  speaks  in  various  tongues,  her  language  of  love 
is  universal,  and  her  influence  in  home,  church,  and  State  marks 
the  mile-stones  of  human  progress.  History  is  full  of  heroic 
women  who  led  armies,  died  for  the  liberty  of  their  country, 
and  suffered  the  tortures  of  battle  and  the  pangs  of  hospital 
experience.  Cleopatra,  the  lovely  Egyptian  queen,  the  Maid 
of  Orleans,  whose  white  banner  proclaimed  victory ;  Charlotte 
Corday,  the  peasant  girl,  who  killed  a  heartless  tyrant,  and 
Florence  Nightingale,  the  charity  angel  of  modern  times,  are 
niched  in  historic  grandeur,  and  ages  yet  unborn  will  sing  the 
glory  of  their  proud  renown.  But  while  these  heroines  of  his- 
tory have  left  the  impress  of  their  genius  upon  the  world,  the 
quiet,  loving,  patient,  heroine  of  home,  who  toils  for  the  child 
and  man  she  loves,  claims  most  my  respect  and  admiration. 
In  the  silent  watches  of  the  night  she  stoops  with  a  nervous, 
listening  ear  over  the  pale  face  of  the  dying  boy,  and  in  her 
breaking  heart  holds  his  image  to  the  grave.  The  bed  of  pain, 
the  gloomy  prison,  the  gallows,  and  the  grave  find  her  min- 
istering hand,  and  she  is  always  ready  to  throw  the  mantle 
of  charity  over  a  fallen  mortal  and  soothe  the  anguish  of  mis- 
fortune in  the  deepest  vale  of  adversity. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  sad  fate  of  the  talented  and  beau- 
tiful Miss  Curran,  the  affianced  bride  of  Robert  Emmet,  a  young 
hero  who  lived  for  Ireland  and  her  friends,  and  died  for  the 
immortal  principles  of  right.  The  green  graves  of  the  broken- 
hearted beauty  and  her  noble  lover  are  the  brightest  gems  in 
the  crown  of  Ireland's  sorrow,  and  in  the  coming  years  they 
will  shine  as  diadems  in  her  crown  of  victory. 


186  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

"  Pile  thick  the  amaranth  and  the  myrtle  o'er  them, 

Let  bright,  green  banners  flash  and  flow, 
Roses  that  love  and  pansies  that  deplore  them, 
And  lilies  weeping  from  their  hearts  of  snow  !  " 

I  shall  never  forget  a  scene  during  the  late  war.  At  the  bat- 
tle of  Kennesaw  Mountain,  near  Atlanta,  I  was  wounded  and 
left  on  the  field  to  die.  After  a  terrible  encounter  between  the 
contending  armies  of  Sherman  and  Johnson,  the  sun  went  down 
upon  that  fraternal  slaughter. 

Our  bugles  sang  trace  while  the  night  clouds  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky, 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered, 
The  weary  to  sleep  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

In  that  terrible  moment,  left  in  the  woods  to  the  night  winds 
and  the  twinkling  stars,  dying  with  pain  and  thirst,  I  beheld 
two  angelic  forms  move  over  the  battlefield,  and  as  they  ap- 
proached my  prostrate  form,  with  kind  words  and  water  to 
quench  my  burning  thirst,  I  recognized  two  Sisters  of  Charity, 
whose  white  hoods  shown  like  celestial  light  brought  down 
from  Heaven  to  cheer  the  drooping  heart  of  man.  Such  is 
woman,  fondest  in  decay,  greatest  in  adversity,  and  best  in 
everything. 

Here's  a  toast,  then  to  woman,  heart  true  and  free. 
Who  quaffs  off  a  cup  to  memory  and  me, 
And  wafts  o'er  the  billows  sighs  of  regret 
For  hours  that  are  gone  and  suns  that  are  set, 
And  changeless  as  fate,  who  loves  to  the  close 
Her  wandering  hero  through  strife  and  repose, 
Fresh  in  her  beauty  as  dew  on  the  rose. 


POETIC  PEBBLES. 


THE    STORY    OF    THE    SAGE. 

[Dedicated  to  Goldwin  Patten,  actor.] 

I  met  a  sage,  decrepit,  old,  and  gray, 

While  plodding  through  his  last  declining  day, 

And  asked  him,  as  he  wandered  down  the  vale, 

To  tell  me  of  his  life's  eventful  tale. 

He  leant  upon  his  staff  and  paused  awhile, 

Then  gazed  across  the  sea  to  some  fair  isle 

That  met  his  fading  vision  through  the  gloom, 

Where  roses  blossom  in  eternal  bloom. 

Fair  youth,  he  said,  my  well-remembered  years 

Arise  before  me  now  through  smiles  and  tears, 

And  take  me  back  to  love-lit,  golden  hours, 

When  life  was  young,  amid  sweet  fragrant  flowers; 

My  hopes  were  of  the  golden  time  to  be, 

Or  like  a  full-rigged  ship  upon  the  sea — 

Freighted  with  all  the  flashing  hues  of  mind 

That  thrill  the  soul  or  deify  mankind. 

My  boyhood  pleasure  was  as  bright  as  thine — 

Came  lightly  as  the  foam  on  rosy  wine; 

But  like  the  foam  it  quickly  passed  away 

And  left  me  to  another  doubtful  day. 

I  fondly  thought  that  when  my  manhood  came 

I'd  rush  into  the  ranks  and  win  a  name 

That  ages  yet  unborn  would  emulate, 

And  grant  me  glory  in  both  Church  and  State. 

In  blooming  age  I  sought  for  power  and  place, 

And  won  distinction  in  full  many  a  race; 

But  just  as  sweet  perfection  came  to  view 

The  bowl  was  dashed  and  left  me  trials  anew. 

(187) 


1 88  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

I  sought  the  field  of  glory  and  of  war, 

My  hope  as  bright  as  yonder  evening  star; 

And  there  I  heard  the  shot  and  shrieking  shell 

That  roared  in  terror,  like  a  voice  from  hell. 

Upon  the  ramparts  high  I  waved  my  flag, 

And  struggled  bravely  up  the  mountain  crag; 

But  just  as  victory  o'er  me  threw  her  spell 

I  dropped  the  flag,  faltered,  wounded  fell. 

A  broken  soldier  who  has  known  defeat 

Can  fight  and  fall,  but  never  can  retreat, 

And  now  you  see  me  just  the  sport  of  Fate, 

Its  taunting  voice  still  ringing  out — too  late. 

In  legislative  halls  with  words  ornate 

I  shone  amid  the  thunders  of  debate, 

And  reaped  some  glory  with  a  loud  applause 

For  making  many  wholesome,  honest  laws. 

I  walked  among  the  noble  and  the  great 

Who  stood  as  pillars  to  the  rising  State; 

And  while  Dame  Fortune  promised  every  prize, 

I  only  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  bright  eyes. 

Yes,  I  have  known  a  loving  maid's  embrace, 

Whose  soul  shone  brightly  in  her  cheering  face, 

While  laughing  children  clambered  on  my  knee, 

And  blessed  me  with  the  glory  of  their  glee. 

Yet  these  have  gone  and  left  me  weak  and  lone, 

With  nothing  here  that  I  can  call  my  own, 

Like  yon  bare  pine  that  topples  to  decay, 

And  droops  above  where  all  its  fellows  lay; 

Or  like  an  eagle  on  some  mountain  height, 

With  longing  eyes,  peers  through  the  gathering  night, 

Awaiting  one  that  never  shall  again 

Soar  with  him  grandly  o'er  the  hill  and  plain. 

Then  I  had  friends  who  filled  my  banquet  hall, 

They  drank  my  sparkling  wine,  both  one  and  all; 

But  when  they  saw  and  knew  that  I  might  fall, 

They  left  me  rudely  with  life's  bitter  gall! 

But  why  repine  for  pleasure  that  is  past, 

Or  sigh  for  earthly  power  that  cannot  last; 

While  people  praise  us  for  their  fame  and  joy 

Erecting  idols  they  will  soon  destroy? 

I  wandered  many  years  in  foreign  lands 


POETIC    PEBBLES. 

From  arctic  regions  to  bright  tropic  sands, 

Seeking  for  perfect  pleasure  on  the  way, 

But  never  found  it  to  the  present  day. 

In  beauty's  eyes,  from  Persia  to  Peru, 

I  caught  love  glances  as  they  darted  through 

The  veil  that  cruel  custom  seeks  to  hide 

What  nature  gave  to  show  with  honest  pride. 

In  Florence  and  in  Rome  I  looked  aghast 

At  works  of  art  that  told  me  of  the  past, 

Which  peopled  every  crumbling  tower  and  pile 

With  royal  spirits  from  some  fairy  isle. 

The  glowing  canvas  and  the  marble  bust 

Have  rescued  heroes  from  the  thickening  dust 

That  centuries  of  time  accumulate 

Upon  the  name  of  those  who  serve  the  State; 

But  yet,  the  time  will  come  when  even  the  great 

Are  lost  within  the  ruins  of  their  State, 

And  every  glorious  fame  that  thrilled  the  past 

Shall  perish  from  the  earth  and  die  at  last. 

Ah!  here  today  you  find  me  old  and  gray, 

A  wreck  where  once  ambition  held  its  sway; 

Where  every  romance  in  the  soul  of  youth 

Came  lightly  as  the  angel  of  the  truth. 

Now  you  are  young,  and  like  the  noble  pine, 

But  sure  as  fate,  your  steps  must  follow  mine — 

While  you  may  hear  and  see  what  I  have  seen, 

Your  name  be  mentioned  in  immortal  green; 

Yet  still  remember  that  no  power  or  gold 

Can  purchase  an  exemption  to  grow  old. 

One  hundred  years  have  crowned  my  troubled  way, 

And  here  I  crumble  with  my  mother  clay; 

I'll  take  a  last  long  look  at  yonder  sun: 

Farewell!  farewell!  My  fleeting  life  is  done! 

He  ceased,  and  sank  into  the  gloom  of  night, 

And  left  behind  no  ray  of  cheering  light, 

While  all  his  conversation  did  but  seem 

The  vestige  of  a  vain  and  vanished  dream! 


JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 


DECORATION  DAY  POEM. 

[Oak  Hill  Cemetery,  May  30,  1895.] 

Grand  Home  of  the  Dead!   we  mourn  as  we  tread 

Near  the  forms  that  crumble  below; 
How  sad  and  how  still  the  graves  on  Oak  Hill, 

'Neath  the  sunlight  in  bright  golden  glow. 

Here's  a  rough,  rude  stone,  moss-grown  and  alone, 

Where  old  Time  has  left  not  a  trace 
Of  the  name  it  bore  in  the  days»of  yore, 

After  brain  and  body  ceased  race. 

Vain,  vain  is  the  thought;  no  one  ever  bought 

Exemption  from  final  decay  — 
To  live  and  to  rot,  and  then  be  forgot, 

The  fate  of  the  quick  of  today. 

The  soldier  and  sage  from  age  unto  age 
Have  slept  'neath  these  towering  trees; 

The  young  and  the  old,  the  bright  and  the  bold 
Are  sung  by  the  breath  of  the  breeze. 

Brave  Babcock  in  peace  here  finds  his  surcease 

From  sorrows  that  troubled  his  life; 
And  rests  with  his  God,  beneath  the  green  sod, 

Away  from  this  cold  world  of  strife. 

Here  Reno  retires  from  war's  flaming  fires 

To  shine  with  immortals  above, 
And  bivouac  there,  devoid  of  all  care, 

In  realms  of  infinite  love. 

Here  Morris,  the  brave,  a  king  of  the  wave, 

Doth  slumber  beneath  the  old  flag; 
Hero  so  grand,  on  the  famed  "Cumberland," 

And  bold  as  a  tall  mountain  crag. 

While  ocean  shall  roar  on  rock-beaten  shore 

The  memory  of  Morris  shall  be 
A  great  loyal  light  for  freedom's  fair  fight 

On  river,  on  land,  and  on  sea. 


POETIC    PEBBLES. 

And  Stanton;  the  grand,  stood  out  for  this  land, 

When  Rebellion  reared  up  its  fierce  face; 
Calmly  reposes  'neath  beds  of  sweet  roses — 

A  lone  hero,  in  war's  ruin  race. 

His  great  iron  arm  kept  the  Union  from  harm 
While  he  smashed  all  the  foes  in  its  way — 

As  great  Lincoln,  his  Chief,  looked  on  with  deep  grief 
At  the  war  'twixt  the  Blue  and  the  Gray. 

As  years  roll  along,  with  sorrow  or  song, 
His  name  shall  grow  braver  and  brighter — 

A  Puritan  true,  who  knew  what  to  do 
With  soldiers  and  Grant,  the  great  fighter. 

Here  sleeps  fine  Van  Ness  who  knew  no  distress, 

While  Burns  expended  his  gold, 
A  Senator  true,  who  b'lieved  in  the  Blue, 

A  gentleman  honest  and  bold. 

Great  Lorenzo  Dow,  who  never  knew  how 

To  garnish  his  truth  with  a  lie, 
Sleeps  under  these  flowers  through  May's  golden  hours, 

Illumined  by  the  sun  and  the  sky. 

Here,  Corcoran,  the  sage,  Bishop  Pinckney,  broad  gauge, 

Repose  under  marble  so  white; 
They've  gone  to  a  land,  bright,  blooming,  and  grand, 

Where  never,  up  there,  is  a  night. 

Here,  John  Howard  Payne  sings  again  that  refrain 

That  thrills  us  wherever  we  roam; 
O'er  land  or  o'er  sea,  our  hearts  still  shall  be 

The  Mecca  of  dear  Home,  Sweet  Home. 

O'er  the  flight  of  the  years,  with  smiles  or  with  tears, 

The  memory  of  Payne  shall  remain; 
And  millions  unborn,  in  twilight  and  morn 

Shall  sing  his  immortal  refrain. 

Let  soldier  and  sage  from  age  unto  age 

Richly  have  all  their  merit  and  praise; 
But  the  poet  will  be  a  light  for  the  free 

To  the  end  of  our  last,  dawning  days. 


JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

Count  Bodisco  sleeps  here,  where  trees  shed  a  tear 
O'er  the  grave  of  the  Muscovite  peer — 

Away  from  all  ill  he  rests  on  Oak  Hill, 
A  memory  from  year  unto  year. 

Dick  Merrick  lies  here,  a  bright,  brilliant  seer. 

A  lawyer  of  lingering  renown, 
Who  fought  every  wrong  of  the  cruel  and  strong 

In  county  or  city  or  town. 

Here  rests  the  bright  Elaine,  in  sunshine  and  rain, 

Who  left  his  imprint  on  the  Nation, 
A  keen,  brainy  mind,  devoted  and  kind, 

Well  fitted  to  fill  a  great  station. 

No  shaft  marks  his  grave  to  tell  traveler  or  slave 
Where  that  proud,  loyal  heart  lowly  lies; 

Yet  the  tall  pines  of  Maine  sigh  in  sorrow  for  Elaine 
As  they  toss  their  green  heads  to  the  skies. 

Our  sweet  little  child,  S<D  simple  and  mild, 

Sleeps  here  under  roses  so  fair; 
Yet,  soon  we  shall  go  to  a  clime  where  no  woe 

Or  sighs  can  corrode  us  with  care. 

Mother  and  sister,  sweetheart  and  wife, 

Repose  from  their  labors  on  earth; 
Resting  alone,  away  from  all  strife, 

Where  the  soul  finds  a  happy,  new  birth. 

Yet  the  citizens  dead  have  always  been  wed 

To  Liberty,  Friendship,  and  Truth — 
Must  be  honored  as  well  as  soldiers  who  fell 

In  the  pride  of  their  brave,  loyal  youth. 

Then,  strew  sweetest  flowers  o'er  the  soldier, 

But  remember  the  citizen,  too, 
Who  stood  by  his  conscience  in  trouble — 

And  supported  the  Gray  or  the  Blue. 

God  bless  our  grand  Nation  forever, 
God  bless  every  heart,  fond  and  true; 

God  bless  any  soul  that  won't  sever, 
The  Gray  from  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue! 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  193 


GRANT'S  MUSTERED  OUT  I 

Half-mast  the  flag,  a  heart  brave  and  stout 
Surrenders  at  last;  Grant's  mustered  out; 
Toll  the  bell  slowly,  moisten  his  sod, 
Peace  to  his  ashes,  glory  to  God! 

Battle  and  trial  shall  never  again 
Harrow  the  hero  in  sunshine  or  rain; 
Gone  to  a  land  devoid  of  all  doubt; 
His  service  is  over — Grant's  mustered  out. 

His  fame,  like  a  light;  shall  shine  through  the  years, 
Hallowed  by  memory  and  watered  by  tears — 
Flags  that  he  carried  shall  long  flap  and  flout, 
A  record  of  glory  is  not  mustered  out! 

Donelson,  Shiloh,  the  Wilderness  too, 

Milestones  immortal  with  deeds  of  the  Blue: 

And  this  is  the  man  that  never  knew  rout, 

Till  Fate  told  the  world  that— Grant's  mustered  out. 

Nations  unborn  shall  visit  his  tomb, 
Reared  by  the  people,  and  lasting  as  doom, — 
Mecca  where  manhood  may  kneel  without  doubt, 
Truth  everlasting  is  not  mustered  out! 


KATIE  AND  I. 
[Suggested  by  my  wife.] 
Katie  and  I  sat  singing,  singing 

As  the  moon  went  down; 
While  bells  were  loudly  ringing,  ringing 
In  the  far-off  town. 

Katie  and  I  sat  thinking,  thinking 

Of  the  long  ago; 
Sweet  baby  fingers  lightly  linking 

Memories  under  snow. 

Katie  and  I  soon  sleeping,  sleeping 

'Neath  the  silent  sod; 
Our  spirits  fondly  greeting,  greeting 

Children,  rest  and  God. 


194  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 


FAREWELL. 

Farewell!  farewell!  My  heart  is  sad  and  lonely, 
While  sailing  o'er  life's  surging,  stormy  sea; 

My  soul-lit  thoughts  are  centered  in  thee  only — 
The  sweetest  being  in  my  memory. 

Farewell!  farewell!    The  secret  of  my  longing 
Cannot  be  told  to  those  of  common  clay — 

Yet,  from  the  past  your  plighted  vows  come  thronging, 
And  thrill  me  with  a  love  that  could  not  stay. 

Farewell!  farewell!     My  bark  is  on  the  billow 
That  hastens  onward  to  a  foreign  shore; 

I  fain  would  rest  upon  a  fevered  pillow, 
And  still  my  weary  soul  forevermore. 

Farewell!  farewell!    Another  hand  shall  lead  thee, 
Another  heart  has  won  the  prize  I  sought; 

Why,  Oh!  why  could  you  rebuke,  deceive  me, 
And  leave  me  lonely  with  this  killing  thought? 

Farewell!  farewell!  Thus  are  we  doomed  to  sever, 
And  break  the  tie  that  bound  us  to  the  past; 

Yet  in  my  heart,  forever  and  forever, 
I'll  keep  your  sainted  image  to  the  last. 


BY  THE  SEA. 

I  am  standing  by  the  sea, 
And  I  listen  to  the  roar 

Of  the  mighty  ocean, 
As  it  breaks  against  the  shore. 

I  think  of  Now  and  Then, 

And  long  for  evermore 
To  taste  of  living  wine 

On  God's  eternal  shore. 

I  see  the  breaker  coming, 
With  a  petrel  on  its  crest; 

I  plunge  into  the  billow, 
Wildly  crying,  "Here  is  rest!  " 


POETIC   PEBBLES.  IQ5 


TOLL  THE  BELL. 

Toll  the  bell  slowly,  meekly,  and  lowly, 

There  comes  an  inanimate  clod, 
Sleeping  forever  beyond  the  dark  river 

A  mortal  has  gone  to  his  God. 

Toll  the  bell  faintly;  echoes  so  saintly 

Are  sounding  o'er  river  and  lea, 
Telling  the  living  all  need  forgiving 

Before  God  and  eternity. 

Toll  the  bell  lightly,  daily  and  nightly 

A  spirit  is  watching  for  thee, 
One  that  has  loved  us,  one  that  has  proved  us, 

Some  fond  soul  who  loved  you  and  me. 

Toll  the  bell  sadly,  heart-broken,  madly 

We  kiss  the  cold  lips  of  the  dead, 
With  hope,  love,  and  tears,  run  back  o'er  the  years 

To  pluck  out  some  cruel  word  said. 


FLOWERS  OF  HOPE. 
[Dedicated  to  M.  J.  Murphy.] 

The  sweetest  flowers  of  golden  hours 

Must  fade  and  pass  away; 
But  love  or  truth,  of  age  or  youth, 
i  Shall  never  know  decay. 

The  hills  are  gray.     Old  Time  won't  stay, 

But  keeps  upon  the  wing; 
Its  flight  of  years  bring  smiles  and  tears 

To  peasant,  prince,  and  king. 

Dear  friends,  depart;  and  leave  the  heart- 

A  ruin  old  and  lone — 
With  nothing  here,  from  year  to  year, 

Which  it  can  call  its  own. 

Yet,  o'er  the  gloom  beyond  the  tomb, 

Where  Hope  can  only  see, 
There  is  a  rest  among  the  blessed, 

And  joy  for  you  and  me. 


JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 

FORGETTING. 

The  friends  that  I  loved  in  December 
And  cherished  so  fondly  in  May, 

Have  long  since  forgot  to  remember, 
And  vanished  like  dewdrops  away. 

In  sunshine  and  power  I  was  toasted 
And  feasted  by  courtiers  so  kind; 

And,  Oh!  how  the  parasites  boasted 
Of  the  wonderful  traits  of  my  mind. 

But  when  the  dark  hour  of  my  trouble 
Arose  like  a  storm  in  the  sky, 

The  vipers  began  to  play  double, 
And  forgot  the  bright  glance  of  my  eve ! 

THE  IRISHMAN. 

[Dedicated  to  Pat  Hoban.] 

As  orator,  poet,  and  soldier 
He  stands  in  the  front  of  the  line; 

No  mortal  was  ever  more  bolder 
To  live  on  the  classical  wine. 

His  heart  is  as  big  as  the  mountains, 
His  soul  sighs  for  beauty  and  grace; 

His  mind  drinks  at  all  of  the  fountains 
Where  knowledge  and  love  run  apace. 

His  wit,  like  the  dews  of  the  morning, 
Enlivens  the  weight  of  an  hour; 

His  proud  heart  has  nothing  but  scorning 
For  tyrants  who  pivot  on  power. 

For  freedom  he'll  fight  on  forever, 
And  never  surrender  to  wrong; 

His  love  for  the  truth  you  can't  sever; 
His  home  is  a  sigh  and  a  song. 

Then  hurrah  for  old  Erin,  the  Emerald, 
That  shines  as  the  gem  of  the  sea, 

And  her  brave  sons  who  never  surrender 
To  vultures  of  king's  tyranny. 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  197 


THE  SUNBEAM. 

A  beautiful  beam  came  into  my  cell, 

Fresh  from  the  eye  of  Jehovah,  to  tell 

That  bolts  and  bars  cannot  keep  out  the  light 

Of  truth,  and  justice,  of  mercy  and  right; 

It  checkered  the  flags  through  the  iron  door, 

And  danced  in  the  shadows  that  kissed  the  floor, 

And  loitered  about  in  a  friendly  way, 

Until  beckoned  back  at  the  close  of  day; 

When  out  of  the  window,  it  flew  on  high 

And  hastened  back  to  its  home  in  the  sky. 

I  followed  the  beautiful  beam  to  rest, 

To  a  sea  of  light  in  the  golden  west; 

It  dropped  to  sleep  on  the  dark  blue  sea 

And  left  me  the  sweetest  memory. 

I  turned  to  my  soul  for  calm  relief, 

Balm  to  my  wound,  a  check  to  my  grief — 

When  visions  of  glory  shone  from  above 

Where  the  light  is  God,  and  God  is  love! 


MY  BABY'S  EYES. 
[To  Florence.] 

My  baby's  eyes  in  melting  blue 
Are  beaming  bright  as  morning  dew, 
And  from  the  skylight  take  a  hue, 
Or  like  the  starlight  bright  and  true. 

My  baby's  eyes  in  liquid  roll 
Enhance  my  world  from  pole  to  pofe, 
And  love  sits  smiling  in  that  goal 
Forever  speaking  to  my  soul. 

My  baby's  eyes  in  other  years 
May  fill  with  many  scalding  tears, 
And  yet  through  cruel  taunts  and  jeers 
A  mother's  love  will  banish  fears. 

My  baby's  eyes  in  blight  or  bloom, 
Those  glorious  orbs  in  grief  or  gloom, 
Shall  be  to  me  in  death  or  doom, 
The  dearest  diamonds  to  the  tomb. 


JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 
THE  LEAVES  ARE  FALLING. 

[Dedicated  to  my  daughter,  Libbie.] 

The  leaves  are  falling;  I  hear  you  calling 
From  out  the  years  that  slumber  in  the  past, 

Asleep  or  waking,  my  heart  is  breaking 
For  one  sweet  love  that  thrills  it  to  the  last. 

The  leaves  are  sailing,  and  I'm  bewailing 
The  lost  affections  of  my  vanished  youth, 

When  friends  were  nearer,  and  hearts  were  dearer, 
And  life  was  in  the  heaven  of  their  truth. 

The  leaves  are  flying,  the  winds  are  sighing, 
And  Nature  in  her  garb  of  green  and  gray 

Makes  many  changes  o'er  hills  and  ranges — 
A  bride  of  beauty  in  her  autumn  day. 

Along  the  hours,  in  golden  showers 
The  leaves  are  falling  over  hill  and  dale; 

Their  ranks  are  broken — a  voiceless  token 
That  we  shall  follow  down  the  fading  vale 
And  perish  like  the  leaves  blown  by  the  gale  ! 


GOD  IS  NEAR. 
[Dedicated  to  Rev.  David  Wills,  of  Georgia.] 

God  is  near  upon  the  ocean, 

God  is  near  upon  the  land; 
He  is  All,  both  rest  and  motion — 

We  are  only  grains  of  sand. 
Little  mites  upon  life's  billow, 

May-flies  buzzing  out  the  hour, 
Dreams  upon  a  fevered  pillow — 

Dewdrops  on  a  withered  flower; 
Only  waiting  for  tomorrow — 

That  has  never  come  to  man, 
Here  we  live  in  joy  and  sorrow, 

Chasing  phantoms  as  we  can, 
Chasing  pleasure,  chasing  greatness, 

Over  tangled  walks  and  waves; 
But  we  learn  the  bitter  lateness 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  199 

Just  before  we  find  our  graves. 
Hope  is  nigh  with  fairy  fingers, 

Tracing  sunbeams  on  the  way; 
Magic  memory  ever  lingers, 

Busy  with  the  bygone  day. 
Life  and  death  are  but  the  portals 

To  a  realm  of  endless  rest; 
God  is  working  through  his  mortals; 

All  in  some  way  shall  be  blessed! 


THE  EXILE. 

In  other  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
My  thoughts  will  often  turn  to  thee; 
And  gazing  o'er  the  billows'  crest 
My  heart  shall  travel  to  the  West, 
Where  lies  a  home,  the  sweetest,  best. 

Fair  land  of  pine  and  oak  and  ash, 
Where  sparkling  streams  forever  dash, 
Mid  mountain  crags  so  grand  and  old 
Rock-ribbed  with  iron,  silver,  gold, 
And  fertile  fields  of  generous  mould. 

The  friends  I  knew  in  childhood  years 
Are  seen  with  love  through  smiles  and  tears 
And  as  my  bounding  bark  departs — 
One  look,  one  sigh,  to  tender  hearts — 
How  memory  from  my  bosom  starts ! 

How  oft  my  eyes  will  turn  in  vain 

To  see  my  native  land  again, 

And  as  the  sail  departs  from  view, 

I'll  peer  across  the  ocean  blue 

To  catch  one  glimpse  of  love  and  yon. 

But  I  am  destined  still  to  roam, 

Without  a  country  or  a  home, 

A  lonely  exile  bent  with  care. 

A  barren  waste,  both  bleak  and  bare — 

No  friend  to  cheer  me  anywhere. 


200  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

[Dedicated  to  Hon.  Amos  Cummings,  New  York.] 

I  gaze  on  my  old  ruined  homestead  today 
Through  the  tears  of  a  wild,  vanished  youth; 

I  see  the  broad  porches  gone  down  to  decay 
Where  my  mother  instilled  every  truth. 

The  chimney  has  crumbled  away  in  the  blast, 

And  the  rafters  have  all  tumbled  down; 
The  hearthstone  brings  back  all  the  joys  of  the  past 

As  the  clouds  in  the  west  darkly  frown. 

The  spring  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  has  gone  dry, 

And  the  apple  and  plum  trees  have  gone; 
I  stand  in  the  gloom  as  the  winds  deeply  sigh — 

See  the  ghosts  of  my  friends  one  by  one. 

Here,  my  mother  and  father  sleep  side  by  side 

In  a  nook  on  the  top  of  the  hill; 
Where  my  heart  was  as  light  as  the  foam  on  the  tide 

When  I  sauntered  about  the  old  mill. 

That  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  creek,  down  the  lane, 

Where  it  rumbled  its  musical  flow; 
But  alas!  I  shall  never  play  there  again 

As  I  played  in  the  sweet  long  ago. 

The  woodpecker  drums  o'er  my  head  on  the  oak 

And  the  gray  squirrel  chatters  his  tune, 
But  where  are  the  schoolmates  whose  sport  and  whose  joke 

Thrilled  my  heart  in  the  play-spell  at  noon. 

Some  are  "  gone  o'er  the  ranges  "  to  sleep  in  the  vale; 

Like  myself,  some  have  wandered  afar — 
Blown  about  like  a  leaf  in  a  withering  gale 

Or  attuned  like  a  broken  guitar! 

By  the  last  ray  of  sunset  I  sadly  behold 

The  old  ruined  home  of  my  youth, 
Where  the  jessamine  clambered  in  colors  of  gold, 

And  the  voices  I  heard  spoke  the  truth. 

Farewell  to  the  scenes  and  the  friends  that  I  knew 

In  the  morning  of  life,  bright  and  fair — 
My  heart  shall  forever  commingle  with  you 

And  my  spirit  shall  always  be  there! 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  2OI 

THERE'S  NO  POCKET  IN  A  ;>HROUD  ! 

[On  the  death  of  a  millionaire.] 

You  must  leave  your  many  millions 

And  the  gay  and  festive  crowd; 
Though  you  roll  in  royal  billions, 

There's  no  pocket  in  a  shroud. 

Whether  pauper,  prince,  or  peasant; 

Whether  rich  or  poor  or  proud — 
Remember  that  there  isn't 

Any  pocket  in  a  shroud. 

You'll  have  all  this  world  of  glory 

With  a  record  long  and  loud, 
And  a  name  in  song  and  story, 

But  no  pocket  in  your  shroud. 

So  be  gen'rous  with  your  riches, 

Neither  vain,  nor  cold,  nor  proud, 
And  you'll  gain  the  golden  niches 

In  a  clime  without  a  cloud  ! 


I  WALK  ALONE. 

[.Dedicated  to  Walt  Whitman.] 

I  walk  alone  where  morning  beams  are  shining, 
And  winds  are  blowing  o'er  the  stormy  sea  ; 

I  look  aloft  and  see  a  silver  lining 
That  thrills  my  soul  with  thoughts  of  Deity. 

I  walk  alone  where  evening  shadows  lower, 
Peering  through  the  crimson  clouds  of  fate  ; 

My  heart  beats  out  the  lagging,  weary  hour, 
Repeating  to  my  soul — too  late,  too  late. 

I  walk  alone  where  mountain  streams  are  leaping, 
And  snow-capped  summits  reach  unto  the  sky, 

And  still  my  nightly,  silent  watch  I'm  keeping, 
Gazing  into  worlds  beyond  that  never  die. 

I  walk  alone  the  rugged  road  of  life, 

Where  human  "  may-flies  "  flutter,  fly,  and  fall ; 
I  battle  still  with  everlasting  strife — 

Ambition,  glory,  and  the  grave — that's  all ! 


202  JEWELS   OF   MEMORY. 

UNKNOWN. 

[Dedicated  to  Mack  Lipscomb,  Washington,  D.  C-l 

I  gazed  on  the  babe  at  its  mother's  breast, 

And  asked  for  the  secret  of  life  and  rest; 

It  turned  with  a  smile  that  was  sad  and  lone, 

And  murmured  in  dreaming,  "Unknown,"  "unknown." 

I  challenged  the  youth  so  bold  and  so  brave, 

To  tell  me  the  tale  of  the  lonely  grave; 

But  he  sung  of  pleasure  in  musical  tone, 

And  his  echoing  voice  replied  "Unknown,"  "unknown." 

Then  I  questioned  the  gray-haired  man  of  years, 
Whose  face  was  furrowed  with  thoughts  and  tears; 
And  he  paused  in  his  race  to  simply  groan, 
The  soul-chilling  words:  "Unknown"  "unknown." 

I  asked  the  lover,  the  poet,  and  sage — 
In  every  clime  and  in  every  age — 
To  tell  me  the  truth,  and  candidly  own 
If  after  life  it  is  all  unknown. 

I  soared  like  the  lark  to  the  boundless  sky, 
Sighed  in  my  soul  for  the  how  and  the  why; 
The  angels  were  singing  and  just  had  flown; 
I  heard  but  the  echo,  "  Unknown,  "  unknown." 

I  read  in  the  hills  and  saw  in  the  rocks 

A  lesson  that  told  of  the  earthquake  shocks; 

I  gazed  at  the  stars  from' a  mountain  cone, 

But  they  only  answered — "  Unknown,"  "  unknown." 

Thus  am  I  tortured  by  fear  and  by  doubts, 

In  tracing  the  way  where  so  many  routes 

Are  ever  in  view,  and  quickly  are  flown, 

And  all  that  I  know  is — "  Unknown,"  "  unknown." 

At  last  I  determined  to  surely  find 

All  hope  and  all  bliss  in  my  mystic  mind; 

But  just  as  sweet  peace  came  to  soothe  me  alone, 

The  wild  witch  of  doubt  shrieked:  "  Unknown,"  "  unknown." 

The  sun  and  the  moon,  the  winds  and  the  wave, 

May  perish  in  time  and  sink  to  the  grave; 

The  temples  of  earth  shall  fall,  stone  by  stone, 

And  mortals  still  wail  out — "  Unknown,"  "  unknown." 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  2O3 

The  millions  of  earth  that  battle  today 
Are  but  a  handful  to  those  passed  away; 
The  future  is  countless — men  from  each  zone 
Shall  flourish  and  die  in  the  far-off  unknown. 

We  come  like  the  dewdrops  and  go  like  the  mist, 
As  frail  as  a  leaf  by  autumn  winds  kissed; 
Fading  away  like  the  roses  of  June — 
Wishing  and  waiting  to  meet  the  unknown. 

Nature,  Oh!  Nature,  thy  God  I  adore; 
There's  light  in  thy  realm,  I  ask  for  no  more; 
From  the  seed  to  the  fruit  all  things  are  grown, 
Yet,  while  we  know  this,  the  cause  is  unknown. 

When  matter  and  mind  are  perished  and  lost, 
And  all  that  we  see  into  chaos  is  tossed, 
From  nothing  to  nothing  we  pass  out  alone, 
Like  a  flash  or  an  echo — "  Unknown,"  "  unknown." 


WHEN  I  AM  DEAD. 

When  I  am  dead  let  no  vain  pomp  display, 
A  surface  sorrow  o'er  my  pulseless  clay, 
But  all  the  dear  old  friends  I  loved  in  life 
Can  shed  a  tear,  console  my  child  and  wife. 

When  I  am  dead  let  strangers  pass  me  by, 

Nor  ask  a  reason  for  the  how  or  why 

That  brought  my  wandering  life  to  praise  or  shame, 

Or  marked  me  for  the  fading  flowers  of  fame. 

When  I  am  dead,  the  vile  assassin  tongue 
Will  try  and  banish  all  the  lies  it  flung, 
And  make  amends  for  all  its  cruel  wrong 
In  fulsome  praise  and  eulogistic  song. 

When  I  am  dead,  what  matters  to  the  crowd  ? 
The  world  will  rattle  on  as  long  and  loud, 
And  each  one  in  the  game  of  life  will  plod 
The  field  to  glory  and  the  way  to  God. 

When  I  am  dead,  some  sage  for  self-renown 
May  urn  my  ashes  in  his  native  town, 
And  give,  when  I  am  cold,  and  lost,  and  dead, 
A  marble  slab,  where  once  I  needed  bread. 


2O4  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

A  FRIEND. 

A  friend  is  one  who  knows  your  fault, 
And  knowing  dares  to  chide  you  ; 

Who  blisters  wrong  with  Attic  salt 
And  still  sticks  close  beside  you. 

A  friend  is  one  who  lifts  you  up 
When  sin  and  sorrow  hover, 

And  casts  aside  the  bitter  cup 
And  takes  you  under  cover. 

A  frend  is  one  whose  words  are  true, 
Whose  purse  in  trial  or  trouble 

Is  ever  open  unto  you  ; 
Whose  heart  cannot  play  double. 

A  friend  is  one  who  bends  alone 
Above  your  nameless  tomb, 

And  keeps  your  memory  all  her  own 
As  flowers  in  full  bloom. 


A  FIRESIDE  MEMORY. 

[Dedicated  to  Dominick  I.  Murphy,  Washington,  D.  C.] 

She's  gone,  yet  memory  unconfined 
Has  reared  a  temple  in  my  heart, 

Where  all  her  virtues  are  enshrined, 
That  never  from  my  soul  depart. 

Her  voice,  like  music  low  and  sweet, 
Could  soothe  me  in  the  deepest  woe — 

How  willing  were  her  flying  feet 
To  serve  me  in  the  long  ago. 

Her  face,  like  yonder  bank  of  flowers, 
Shone  brightly  o'er  me,  near  and  far — 

Lit  up  my  life  in  lonely  hours — 
My  truest  friend,  my  polar  star. 

No  more  those  footsteps  run  to  greet 
My  lagging  moments,  night  or  day  ; 

We  never  more  on  earth  shall  meet — 
My  joys  with  her  have  passed  away. 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  205 

Her  image  hangs  on  yonder  wall 

Still  speaking  of  the  olden  time, 
When  she  to  me  was  all  in  all 

And  love  was  in  its  early  prime. 

Now  bending  o'er  the  smouldering  fire, 

I  see  the  shadows  come  and  go, 
While  one  by  one  the  sparks  expire, 

And  flake  by  flake  comes  down  the  snow. 

But  through  the  gloom  I  always  see 

A  ray  of  that  dear  vanished  light, 
And  memory  fondly  brings  to  me 

Her  image  ever  pure  and  bright. 


AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

Among  the  hills  where  summer  rills 
Come  leaping  o'er  the  grasses, 

I  hear  the  glee  from  tree  to  tree 
And  see  the  lads  and  lasses. 

The  laughing  noise  of  girls  and  boys 

Awaken  youthful  dreaming 
Of  long  ago,  with  joy  and  woe, 

And  many  bright  eyes  beaming. 

But  now  today  my  hair  is  gray, 
The  wrinkles  o'er  me  creeping  ; 

My  youth  is  past,  and  here  at  last 
I'm  left  to  silent  weeping. 

But  memory  clings  and  love  still  sings 

Among  the  hills  of  childhood, 
The  tunes  I  knew  when  friends  were  true, 

And  pleasure  ruled  the  wildwood. 

I 

Laugh  on  sweet  youth,  with  love  and  truth 

Be  happy  without  measure, 
While  song  and  rhyme  can  kill  old  Time 
And  youth  remains  a  treasure. 


2O6  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

THE  SUTLER. 

"  I  will  a  Sutler  be  that  profits  may  accrue. — SHAKS^EARH. 
[Dedicated  to  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic.] 

I  sing  the  song  of  the  sutler, 

Who  fought  in  the  battle  of  life, 
The  song  of  the  prize-package  "  artist," 

Who  never  got  into  the  strife  ; 
Not  the  jubilant  song  of  the  soldier, 

Who  never  forgot  to  lay  claim 
To  the  greenbacks  that  stuck  in  the  "Jack  Pot  " 

At  the  end  of  a  winter-night  game. 
But  the  song  of  the  beautiful  sutler, 

Who  traveled  in  sunshine  and  rain, 
For  the  sake  of  the  almighty  dollar 

And  whatever  else  he  could  gain ; 
And  his  youth  bore  no  flower  on  its  branches, 

But  his  age  was  a  bright,  sunny  day  ; 
For  the  prize  that  he  gloriously  grasped  at 

Was  the  cash  that  he  carried  away. 
And  the  work  that  he  did  for  the  Army 

In  the  rear  of  the  soldiers  was  seen, 
Where  he  set  up  his  crackers  and  herrings, 

And  the  smell  of  the  festive  sardine 
That  he  sold  to  the  "  boys  "  on  a  credit, 

Or  the  clamp  of  a  paymaster's  lease  ; 
And  six  boxes  he  gave  for  five  dollars, 

While  the  rest  brought  a  dollar  a  piece. 
While  the  world  at  large  sheds  a  tear 

To  the  hero  that  may  be  bereft, 
I  drink  to  the  Grand  Army  Sutler 

Who  never  was  known  to  get  left! 
Who  rushed  to  the  front,  when  the  camp-fires 

Lit  up  all  the  hills,  without  fear  ; 
But  at  the  first  crack  of  the  rifle 

He  galloped  away  to  the  rear,     . 
With  his  pipes,  his  tobacco,  and  whiskey, 

And  his  barrels  of  sour  lager  beer; 
And  he  never  let  up  on  his  running 

Till  the  Long  Bridge  appeared  to  his  view, 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  2OJ 

Where  he  opened  up  shop  in  his  wagon, 

And  roped-in  the  gay  "  boys  in  blue." 
How  he  held  to  his  faith  unseduced, 

With  the  glint  of  the  cash  in  his  eye ; 
And  for  this  great  cause  how  he  suffered ! 

For  the  cash,  not  the  country,  he'd  die  ! 
Then  rear  to  the  sutler  a  temple, 

Of  granite  and  brass  that  will  stay, 
Where  the  spirit  of  Shylock  shall  hover, 

And  beam  on  the  "  blue"  and  the  "  gray," 
Who  once  paid  a  tribute  to  genius, 

With  a  gall  that  no  mortal  could  rule, 
And  a  smile  like  a  lightning-rod  peddler, 

And  a  cheek  like  the  Grand  Army  Mule ! 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

[Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  my  father.] 

Farewell  to  the  land  of  my  birth  and  my  childhood, 
Where  the  shamrock  and  hawthorn  bloom  in  the  vale, 

And  the  linnet  and  thrush  sing  sweet  in  the  wildwood; 
Where  perfume  of  roses  is  borne  on  the  gale. 

Farewell  to  the  hills  and  the  streams  where  I  wandered, 
To  my  dear  mountain  cot  at  the  edge  of  the  glen, 

Where  often,  in  spring-time,  I  played  and  I  pondered, 
But  ne'er  shall  I  witness  those  loved  scenes  again. 

Farewell  to  the  church  and  the  school-house  of  learning, 
To  the  lads  and  the  lasses  that  frolicked  in  glee; 

My  heart  is  near  breaking  while  footsteps  are  turning 
To  a  land  full  of  freedom  far  over  the  sea. 

Farewell  to  the  grave  of  my  father  and  mother; 

The  daisy  and  violet  bloom  o'er  their  head; 
The  turf  is  still  fresh  on  the  breast  of  another — 

The  dearest  and  sweetest  of  those  with  the  dead. 

Farewell,  we  must  part,  and  the  links  of  love  sever, 
Yet  tears  of  remembrance  for  thee  shall  renew 

The  friendship  I'll  cherish  forever  and  ever 
Wherever  I  wander,  dear  Erin,  for  you! 


208  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

THE  SHAMROCK. 

[Dedicated  to  Dr.  P.  S.  O'Reilley,  St.  Louis,  Mo.] 

There's  a  green  little  plant  that  grows  over  the  sea, 

That  I  love,  although  far,  far  away, 
And  its  petals  are  always  the  dearest  to  me, 

For  they  bloom  in  my  heart  night  and  day. 

The  rose  and  the  lily  are  fine  to  behold, 
With  the  perfume  distilled  from  their  cells, 

But  more  precious  to  me  than  diamonds  or  gold 
Is  the  tale  that  the  green  shamrock  tells. 

It  tells  of  a  faith  that  has  never  been  crushed, 

And  a  people  you  cannot  subdue, 
Of  echoes  of  freedom  that  never  are  hushed — 

Like  the  roar  of  the  ocean  we  view. 

It  whispers  a  song  of  sweet  dreams  that  are  fled, 
Of  bright  hopes  that  have  vanished  away — 

Of  heroes  of  freedom  who  fought  and  who  bled, 
Of  bards  with  their  musical  lay. 

Though  the  harp  of  the  bard  may  be  broken, 

And  the  voice  of  the  singer  be  still, 
The  green  shamrock  is  ever  our  token — 

For  it  blooms  over  valley  and  hill. 

Where  the  thrush  and  the  blackbird  and  linnet 
Sing  their  notes  to  the  rivers  that  run, 

And  the  lark  can  be  seen  every  minute, 
As  he  circles  around  to  the  sun. 


LET  ME  REST. 

Let  me  rest  where  sunlight  lingers, 
'Neath  the  waving  willow  shade, 

Where  the  morn  with  dewy  fingers 
Sprinkles  diamonds  o'er  the  glade. 

Where  the  little  birds  are  singing 
O'er  the  flowers  above  my  tomb, 

And  the  matin  bells  are  ringing 
Mortals  to  celestial  bloom  ! 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  2OQ 

VANITY. 
[Dedicated  to  Henry  T.  Stanton,  Kentucky.] 

Sweet  thoughts  that  we  cannot  repeat, 

And  songs  that  we  never  can  sing 
Arise  in  the  brain  but  to  meet 

And  speed  like  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

A  light  or  a  flash  on  the  wave, 

Is  the  life  that  we  live  today — 
A  memory  gone  to  the  grave, 

Or  the  laugh  of  a  child  at  play. 

A  glance  at  this  world  of  beauty, 

A  bubble  that  floats  on  the  sea; 
To  hope  and  to  die  for  duty, 

And  sink  to  eternity. 


KISSING  O'ER  THE  BARS. 

[A  Song.    Dedicated  to  "  Gypsy  Kroh."] 

I  had  a  little  sweetheart,  her  name  was  Jennie  Lee, 
We  met  down  by  the  brooklet,  and  by  the  waters  free, 
We  clasped  and  kissed  each  other,  beneath  the  rising  stars — 
Our  hearts  kept  tune  together  while  kissing  o'er  the  bars. 

Although  the  years  have  left  me  and  I  am  old  and  gray, 
I  can't  forget  the  gloaming  that  long  since  passed  away; 
Yet  while  my  life  is  wasting  and  marked  by  many  scars, 
I'm  standing  by  the  brooklet  and  kissing  o'er  the  bars ! 

Often  in  the  evening  when  I  gaze  across  the  sea, 

My  soul  is  filled  with  rapture  for  home  and  Jennie  Lee, 

And  though  a  lonely  exile  exposed  to  jolts  and  jars, 

I'm  kissing,  fondly  kissing,  my  sweet  Jennie  o'er  the  bars  ! 

She  left  me  in  the  morning  when  life  was  young  and  true; 
Her  spirit  shines  upon  me  from  yonder  bounding  blue, 
And  though  the  world  rebukes  me  with  many  winds  and  wars, 
My  heart  and  soul  feel  rapture  while  kissing  o'er  the  bars  ! 


2IO  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

THE  THISTLE. 

[Dedicated  to  Thomas  Somerville,  Sr.,  Washington,  D.  C-l 

Let  England  boast  of  ivy  green, 
Of  beef  and  gold  and  gristle; 

But  still  my  soul  shall  always  lean 
To  Scotland  and  its  thistle. 

Old  Ireland  may  its  shamrock  praise, 

Romantic  airs  still  whistle; 
Yet  give  me  back  my  childhood  days — 

Dear  Scotland  and  its  thistle. 

Gay  France  may  boast  the  lily  white, 
Its  slopes  with  vines  may  bristle, 

Yet  all  its  joys  both  day  and  night 
Can't  vie  with  Scotland's  thistle. 

Columbia,  my  adopted  land, 

Sweet  liberty,  thy  story; 
To  thee  I  freely  give  my  hand, 

My  heart  for  Scotland's  glory. 

The  land  of  Wallace,  Bruce,  and  Burns, 
Refreshed  by  Highland  misle, 

To  thee  my  throbbing  heart  still  turns, 
My  Scotland  and  its  thistle. 

'Tis  there  the  bonny  Doon  and  Ayr 
Reflect  the  evening  shadow, 

With  thistles  growing  everywhere 
'Mid  mountain,  marsh,  and  meadow. 


JUST  SO. 

Our  vices  are  printed  in  "  caps," 
Our  virtues  in  small  "  nonpareil;" 

And  all  of  our  daily  mishaps 
The  neighbors  are  ready  to  tell. 

If  you  stumble,  beware  of  the  crowd — 
It's  callous,  and  heartless,  and  cold; 

Twill  praise  you  today  long  and  loud; 
Tomorrow,  'twill  damn  brave  and  bold! 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  211 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CLOCK. 

[Dedicated  to  Derwin  De  Forest,  of  New  York.] 

Tick,  tick,  the  moments  fly, 
Tick,  tick,  we  live  and  die. 
Tick,  tick,  goes  the  hour, 
Tick,  tick,  fades  the  flower. 

Tick,  tick,  heartbeats  go, 
Tick,  tick,  weal  or  woe. 
Tick,  tick,  soon  are  fled, 
Tick,  tick,  lost  and  dead. 

Tick,  tick,  days  and  years, 
Tick,  tick,  smiles  and  tears. 
Tick,  tick,  wind  and  wave, 
Tick,  tick,  grief,  the  grave. 


THE  HEAD  AND  THE  HEART. 

The  Head  and  the  Heart  had  a  quarrel  one  day, 
As  to  which  was  at  fault  for  the  other; 

The  Head  with  great  arrogance  always  would  say 
That  the  Heart  was  a  wild,  reckless  brother. 

And  the  Heart  would  not  listen  to  reason; 

Yet  it  worked  brave  and  strong  all  the  hours, 
While  the  Head  tossed  about  in  high  treason 

As  it  talked  on  the  nature  of  flowers. 

And  the  heart  with  its  warm  pulsation 

Made  many  a  grievous  mistake, 
But  'twas  always  on  side  of  salvation 

For  the  poor  fallen  woman,  or  Rake. 

The  Head  was  a  dastard  old  miser, 
Who  doubted  the  whole  of  mankind, 

And  told  the  poor  heart  to  be  wiser 
And  leave  its  pulsations  for  mind. 

But  the  brave  Heart  replied  in  its  glory, 
I  would  rather  be  fooled  now  anti  then 

Than  list  to  your  cold,  cynic  story 
And  doubt  all  my  good  fellow-men. 


212  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

The  Head  was  a  ready-cash  banker, 
While  the  Heart  was  a  Prodigal  Son, 

And  though  his  fair  form  grew  lanker, 
His  truth  and  his  love  weighed  a  ton. 

If  you  met  him  in  anguish  or  sorrow, 

In  the  walks  of  Vanity  Fair, 
A  shilling  or  pound  you  could  borrow, 

And  his  smile  could  be  found  everywhere. 

But  the  selfish  old  Head  turned  coldly, 

And  vaunted  its  pelf  and  its  pride, 
As  he  passed  by  his  fellows  so  boldly, 

Where  they  starved,  and  they  bled,  and  they  died. 

But  old  age  struck  this  top-heavy  creature, 

And  left  him  alone  with  his  tears; 
Not  a  friend  to  gaze  on  his  feature 

As  he  sank  to  his  grave  without  tears. 

Yet  the  noble  old  Heart  with  its  failing, 
Had  the  prayers  of  the  poor  and  the  just, 

A.nd  a  funeral  train  all  bewailing, 
When  it  passed  to  the  sad,  silent  dust. 


TRUTH  AND  LOVE. 

The  works  of  man  shall  crumble  and  decay, 
His  boast  in  brass  and  bronze  shall  pass  away; 
But  o'er  the  rolling  years  of  tide  and  time 
The  truth  shall  flourish  in  immortal  prime. 

Temples  and  towers  shall  crumble  into  dust, 
Silver  and  gold  shall  perish  with  the  rust — 
And  all  things  that  we  see  below,  above, 
Shall  vanish  from  the  earth  but  lasting  love. 

The  splendid  wrecks  of  pyramids  and  thrones 
Can  only  mark  the  spot  where  human  bones 
Still  moulder  into  dust  without  a  name — 
The  vain  memorials  of  presumptive  fame! 

But  truth,  and  love,  and  hope,  and  glorious  song 
Shall  triumph'over  ages,  and  o'er  wrong, 
And  cheer  the  drooping  spirit  through  the  night 
When  vice  and  vengeance  battle  with  the  right. 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  213 

THIRTY  YEARS. 

[A  memory  of  Mount  Sterling,  Ky.] 

Thirty  years  are  gone  tomorrow 
Since  these  streams  and  hills  I  knew; 

Thirty  years  of  joy  and  sorrow 
Brings  me  back,  dear  hills,  to  you. 

Many  friends  I  loved  are  sleeping 

On  the  crest  of  yonder  hill; 
'Neath  the  willows  gently  weeping, 

Near  the  sound  of  Perry's  mill. 

Beaux  and  beauties  that  I  cherished 

Left  me  in  their  early  bloom, 
Yet  their  memory  never  perished 

With  the  blight  that  blurs  the  tomb. 

Raven  locks  no  more  are  shining; 

Lost  and  gone  the  flowers  of  May; 
Yet  how  vain  is  all  repining 

In  my  crown  of  silver  gray. 

Vanished  voices  in  the  twilight 

Float  above  the  hill  and  plain; 
Call  me  fondly  to  the  skylight, 

Thrill  my  heart  with  love  again. 


THE  RISING  SUN. 

Shine  out,  thou  glorious  sun,  upon  a  sleeping  world 
And  thrill  the  soul  with  fires  from  above — 

Where  thunderbolts  are  forged  and  flashed  and  hurled 
By  one  Almighty  hand — source  of  light  and  love. 

Arise,  and  stride  across  the  ocean  billow, 
And  light  thy  pathway  o'er  the  vales  and  hills, 

Go,  shine  where  beauty  dreams  upon  her  pillar 
And  sparkles  in  the  leaping  mountain  rills. 

Let  stars  and  moons  and  planets  in  their  sweeping 
Pale  their  light  before  the  splendid  sway, 

While  I  my  weary  matin  watch  am  keeping 
To  catch  the  glory  of  the  God  of  day. 


214  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 


THE  BOAST  OF  BACCHUS. 

[Dedicated  to  the  memories  of  "  Bobby  "  Burns,  Oliver  Goldsmith,  and 
••  Edgar  Allen  Poe.] 

I  reign  over  land,  I  reign  over  sea, 

The  proudest  of  earth  I  bring  to  my  knee 

As  weak  as  a  child  in  the  midnight  of  care; 

The  prince  and  the  peasant  I  strip  bleak  and  bare. 

A  taste  of  my  blood  sends  a  thrill  to  the  heart, 
And  speeds  through  the  soul  like  a  poisonous  dart; 
While  I  leave  it  a  wreck  of  trouble  and  pain 
That  never  on  earth  can  be  perfect  again. 

The  youth  in  his  bloom  and  the  man  in  his  might 
I  capture  by  day  and  I  conquer  by  night; 
The  maid  and  the  matron  respond  to  my  call, 
I  rule  like  a  tyrant  and  ride  over  all. 

In  the  gilded  saloon  and  glittering  crowd 
I  deaden  the  senses  and  humble  the  proud, 
And  tear  from  the  noble,  the  good,  and  the  great 
The  love  and  devotion  of  home,  church,  and  state. 

I  blast  all  the  honor  that  manhood  holds  dear, 
I  smile  with  delight  at  the  sight  of  a  tear, 
And  laugh  in  the  revel  and  rout  of  a  night; 
My  mission  on  earth  is  to  blur  and  to  blight. 

I  ruin  the  homes  of  the  high  and  the  low, 
I  blast  every  hope  of  the  friend  and  the  foe; 
The  world  I  sear  with  my  blistering  breath, 
And  millions  I  lead  to  the  portals  of  death. 

In  the  parlor  and  dance-house  I  sparkle  and  roar 
Like  billows  that  break  on  a  wild,  rocky  shore; 
I  crush  every  virtue,  destroy  every  truth 

That  blossoms  in  beauty  or  blushes  in  youth, 
l 

My  power  is  mighty  for  sin  and  despair; 
i  I  crouch,  like  a  lion  that  waits  in  his  lair, 

To  mangle  the  life  of  the  pure  and  the  brave, 

And  drag  them  in  sorrow  to  shame  and  the  grave! 


POETIC  PEBBLES.  215 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHILOH. 

[Dedicated  to  the  American  soldier.] 

Bands  were  playing,  horses  neighing, 

Soldiers  straying,  mules  were  braying; 

Banners  flying,  women  crying, 

Hearts  were  sighing,  many  dying; 

Onward,  backward,  all  uproarious, 

The  "  Gray  "  victorious,  the  "  Blue  "  was  glorious* 

The  field  was  won,  the  field  was  lost, 

Like  ocean  billows,  torn  and  tossed; 

And  on  the  bloody  beach  of  war 

Waves  of  dead,  a  giant  scar; 

And  mangled  bodies  torn  and  pale, 

Like  forests  in  a  withering  gale. 

Up  the  hill  and  down  the  vale, 

Advance,  retreat,  but  never  fail; 

Fix  bayonets,  forward,  guide  right! 

A  shout,  a  yell,  God!  what  a  sight. 

At  them  again  through  smoke  and  fire; 

Fight  and  fall,  but  ne'er  retire. 

Once  more  to  the  breach,  steady,  strike — 

Blood,  broken  bones,  who  saw  the  like 

Never  forgets  through  the  long  years 

That  call  up  our  smiles  and  our  tears. 

Capture  cannon,  capture  men, 

Crash,  smash,  at  them  again. 

Hark  to  the  yell  of  Cleburne's  men, 

They  rush  like  demons  through  the  glen, 

Driving  the  "  Blue  "  toward  the  river, 

And  many  are  lost  forever; 

Sherman  shouts  "  Halt!  right  about,  charge!" 

Then  down  through  the  brush  and  the  gorge 

The  "  Gray  "  in  turn  are  flying. 

Lord!  how  the  soldiers  are  dying. 

McClernand,  McCook  stand  at  bay, 

While  Wallace  is  lost  on  the  way 

To  the  field,  where  Prentiss  surrenders 


JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 

To  the  South  and  its  brave  defenders. 
Cheatham,  Withers,  Gibson,  and  Bragg 
Stand  out  like  a  wild,  rocky  crag 
And  beat  back  the  bold  invaders; 
At  last  they  are  crushed  by  the  raiders. 
Then  Crittenden,  Hurlbut,  and  Wood 
With  many  brave  heroes  withstood — 
Charge  after  charge,  through  the  rain 
Of  bullets  that  whizzed  o'er  the  plain. 
Webster  shouts,  "  Park  and  unlimber!" 
Shot  and  shell  right  through  the  timber- 
Cannons  that  growl  like  December, 
Sounds  that  we  long  shall  remember, 
Shriek  like  the  roar  from  a  burning  hell! 
Sending  the  foe  to  the  rear  pell-mell! 
Danger  and  death  so  fierce  and  hard 
To  the  halting  troops  of  Beauregard! 
Sunday's  sun  has  gone  at  last, 
Rushing  rains  are  falling  fast 
On  the  faces  cold  as  lead, 
On  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
Brave  Sidney  Johnston  led  the  "  Gray," 
But  Fate  cut  off  his  life  that  day, 
And  Beauregard  could  not  repel 
The  Union  fire — a  blast  from  hell, 
Where  cannon  thundered  o'er  the  glen 
And  shattered  horses,  boys,  and  men. 
Then  Monday's  sun  arose  in  a  gloom 
And  spread  its  clouds  above  this  tomb, 
Where  Grant  and  Buell  joined  to  smash 
The  stubborn  Gray  with  one  dread  crash. 
But  still  the  Gray  declined  to  yield, 
And  fought  like  tigers  on  the  field — 
Till  wave  on  wave  "  the  boys  in  blue  " 
Rolled  o'er  these  Southern  hearts  so  true- 
While  Sherman  over  swamp  and  bridge 
Dashed  on  the  gallant  Breckinridge! 
The  day  was  won,  the  day  was  lost, 
And  twenty  thousand  told  the  cost, 
Where  brothers  bled  and  brothers  died — 
A  ruin  with  its  crimson  tide, 
That  flowed  for  you  and  flowed  for  me 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  217 

On  the  torn  banks  of  the  Tennessee! 
The  sun  goes  down,  the  stars  are  set, 
That  bloody  field  we  can't  forget 
While  valor  holds  a  deathless  sway 
And  honor  crowns  the  "  Blue  "  and  "  Gray." 
It  may  be  that  the  winking  "  stars  " 
Contain  the  men  who  loved  the  "  bars  " — 
And  that  those  gallant,  noble  types 
Join  hands  with  those  who  loved  the  stripes. 
But  "  stars  "  and  "  bars  "  and  "  red  "  and  "  blue  " 
And  "  stripes  "  and  "  stars  "  wave  over  you  ; 
Our  Nation  fills  our  fame  today — 
The  "  red  "  is  "  Blue  "  and  the  "  blue  "  is  "  Gray  " ! 
A  thousand  years  of  glory 

Shall  immortalize  our  fame — 
With  a  tale  in  song  and  story 

To  keep  green  the  hallowed  name 
Of  the  victor  and  the  vanquished 

On  the  land  and  on  the  sea, 
A  band  of  noble  brothers 

Led  by  gallant  Grant  and  Lee. 
And  the  tears  of  beaming  beauty 

Shall  freshen  every  flower — 
In  the  May-time  of  our  duty, 

Through  the  sunlit,  fleeting  hour. 
Then  we'll  strew  the  rarest  roses 
O'er  the  graves  we  bless  today, 
And  we'll  pluck  the  purest  posies 

To  enwreath  the  "  Blue"  and  "  Gray." 
And  down  the  circling  ages, 
From  the  father  to  the  son, 
We'll  tell  on  golden  pages 

How  the  field  was  lost  and  won  ; 
And  how  a  band  of  brothers 

Fought  each  other  hard  and  true 
To  bind  the  Union  arches 

O'er  the  "  Gray  "  and  o'er  the  "  Blue," 
And  reared  a  lasting  temple 
So  complete  in  every  plan, 
To  justice,  truth,  and  mercy 
And  the  liberty  of  man  ! 


2l8  JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 


SUBLIMITY. 
[Dedicated  to  Eugene  Field.] 

I  hear  in  the  voice  of  the  thunder 
The  glory  and  greatness  of  God; 

I  see  in  the  flash  of  the  lightning 
The  sweep  of  my  glittering  rod. 

I  feel  in  the  rush  of  the  rain 
The  flow  of  His  melting  tears, 

And  hear  in  the  midnight  winds 
The  music  of  all  the  spheres. 

I  see  in  the  limitless  ocean 
The  swell  of  His  heaving  breast, 

And  the  hour  is  near  when  I  shall 
Sink  to  His  bosom  of  infinite  rest. 


CLEOPATRA'S  REPLY. 
[Dedicated  to  Gen.  William  Haynes  Lytle,  author  of  "  I'm  Dying,  Egypt,  Dying."] 

I  am  dying,  Antony,  dying, 
Yet  I  long  for  one  embrace 
To  entwine  my  arms  around  you, 
And  still  greet  you  face  to  face; 
Ere  I  cross  the  stygian  river 
Testing  highest  heaven  or  hell, 
I  am  pining  for  thy  presence — 
Come,  and  kiss  a  fond  farewell. 

I  am  dying,  Antony,  dying, 
While  the  conquering  hosts  of  Rome 
Batter  down  my  palace  portals 
And  despoil  my  royal  home; 
Like  great  Caesar's  dashing  legions 
Rule  the  land  and  rule  the  sea, 
I  defy  his  sharpest  torture — 
You  and  Love  rule  only  me. 

I  am  dying,  Antony,  dying, 
Yet,  my  soul-lit  love  forbids 
To  quench  great  furnace  fires 


POETIC    PEBBLES.     . 

Burning  'neath  the  pyramids 
Of  passion's  deep  foundation, 
Laid  by  nature  and  her  laws, 
That  abide  by  blood  and  impulse 
From  some  great  eternal  cause. 

I  am  dying,  Antony,  dying, 
Yet,  the  "  splendors  of  my  smile  " 
Shall  light  thy  pathway  onward 
To  some  grand  celestial  Nile, 
Where  among  bright  heavenly  bowers 
We  shall  clasp  with  magic  might, 
Crowned  with  everlasting  flowers 
Blooming  always,  day  and  night. 

Come,  my  lion-hearted  hero 
To  the  jungles  of  my  heart, 
Feed  upon  the  upland  hillocks, 
Never  more  to  pine  or  part; 
Wander  grandly  to  the  valley 
Where  the  springs  of  life  abound, 
Cool  the  ardor  of  thy  passion 
In  dark  grottoes  under  ground. 


GOLDEN    HAIR. 

[Dedicated  to  Emily  Thornton  Charles.] 

Only  a  lock  of  golden  hair 

That  I  gaze  on  with  ceaseless  pain, 
Worn  by  an  image  pure  and  fair, 

That  never  shall  bless  me  again. 

She  went  like  the  mist  of  morning 
To  shine  with  the  stars  above, 

A  beautiful,  chaste  adorning 
In  a  realm  of  endless  love. 

Yet  often  when  evening  twilight 
Encircles  my  heart  with  gloom 

I  hear  her  voice  from  the  starlight 
That  sparkles  within  my  room. 

And  I  see  through  the  mystic  moonbeams, 

Her  form  so  rare  and  fair, 
A  radiant  light  from  Heaven  so  bright, 

With  tresses  of  golden  hair. 


22O  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 


LAURA. 

Where  the  purple  hills  lie  sleeping, 

Beneath  the  autumn  shade, 
And  the  trees  are  sadly  weeping 

Their  tribute  o'er  the  glade; 
There  I  laid  my  lovely  Laura 

In  days  so  long  ago, 
When  my  heart  was  full  of  sorrow 

As  the  mountains  full  of  snow. 

I've  tried  oft  to  forget  her 

In  the  whirl  of  busy  life, 
But  the  more  do  I  regret  her 

In  my  round  of  daily  strife; 
And  when  evening  shadows  lower 

O'er  the  purple  hills  afar, 
I  recall  the  lonely  hour 

When  I  lost  my  polar  star. 

Yet,  the  day  is  surely  coming 

When  we'll  clasp  with  magic  might, 
Where  the  angel  choirs  are  humming- 

In  the  bright  celestial  light — 
Where  the  waters  ever  sparkle 

On  that  bright,  eternal  shore, 
And  our  hearts  will  never  darkle, 

But  shall  love  for  evermore. 


MY  SOUL  AND  SELF. 
[Dedicated  to  Col.  De  Witt  C.  Sprague.] 

My  soul  and  self  walked  hand  in  hand 

Discoursing  of  the  time  to  be, 
When  we  should  view  the  "  Promised  Land  " 

And  sink  into  eternity. 

The  Star  of  Hope  was  in  my  sky, 
And  Faith  reigned  monarch  of  the  hour, 

While  Love  and  Truth  were  always  nigh 
To  cheer  me  in  their  rosy  bower. 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  221 

I  asked  my  sighing  soul  to  tell 

The  secret  that  enwraps  the  tomb, 
Or  if  there  was  a  burning  hell 

To  torture  in  eternal  gloom. 

I  heard  an  echo  faint  and  low, 
Come  sounding  o'er  the  wreck  of  years — 

A  voice  all  tremulous  with  woe 
That  left  me  to  my  silent  tears. 

Dread  silence  brooded  o'er  my  heart 

And  brought  a  chaos  of  despair; 
My  soul  and  self  then  tore  apart, 

With  nothing  here  and  nothing  there  ! 


I    HAVE    SINNED    AND    I    HAVE    SUFFERED.' 
[Last  words  of  John  Howard  Payne,  author  of  "  Home,  Sweet  Home.] 
I  have  sinned  and  I  have  suffered, 

Yet  the  world  will  never  know 
How  I  tried  to  do  my  duty 
In  the  long,  the  long  ago. 

I  have  sinned  and  I  have  suffered, 

Human  nature  is  so  weak — 
Yet  my  tongue  cannot  be  tempted 

To  disclose,  betray,  or  speak. 

I  have  sinned  and  I  have  suffered; 

Who  has  not  through  blood  and  bone? 
If  there  be  a  mortal  living, 

Let  him  bravely  cast  the  stone. 

I  have  sinned  and  I  have  suffered, 

Just  the  same  as  other  men, 
But  my  heart  cannot  be  conquered, 

Nor  the  soul  that  burns  within. 

I  have  sinned  and  I  have  suffered; 

Mournful  memories  come  to  me; 
Yet  beyond  the  clouds  of  sorrow 

Rifts  of  sunshine  I  can  see. 

I  have  sinned  and  I  have  suffered, 

He  can  sink  and  He  can  save 
All  the  human  hearts  that  wander 

To  the  cold  and  silent  grave. 


222  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 


THE    OLD    YEAR. 

[Dedicated  to  Anonymous.] 

Farewell,  old  year,  we  soon  must  sigh  and  sever; 

Another  moment  and  you're  lost  to  sight; 
Yet  in  my  heart  I'll  keep  your  form  forever; 

And  now,  old  friend,  I  bid  you  sweet  good-night. 

You've  left  some  scars  upon  my  aching  heart, 
And  robbed  me  of  a  dear  and  valued  friend, 

Sweet  Love,  who  promised  never  more  to  part, 
Has  passed  away  and  come  unto  an  end. 

But  even  'mong  the  joys  you  rudely  shattered 
There  shine  some  jewels  that  you  can't  destroy, 

While  memory  still  remains  unbattered 
And  heavenly  hope  is  there  without  alloy. 

Your  keen-edged  scythe  has  cut  down  many  a  beauty, 
O'er  land  and  sea  wherever  you  have  trod, 

Yet  if  their  hands  and  hearts  stuck  close  to  duty 
I  know  they've  gone  to  glory  and  their  God. 

And  still  I  know  the  new  year  holds  some  pleasure 
For  those  who  work  and  love  their  fellow-men, 

While  summer  fields  will  yield  their  golden  treasure 
When  sunny  skies  shall  shine  for  us  again. 

So  fare  thee  well,  my  dear  old  wrinkled  hero; 

The  midnight  clock  rings  out  your  funeral  knell, 
And  soon  you'll  be  as  dead  as  tyrant  Nero, 

But  once  again  I  sound  a  sweet  farewell. 


MORNING  AND  EVENING. 

[Dedicated  to  Col.  Will  L.  Visscher.] 
In  the  morning  of  life  I  was  filled  with  ambition 

To  roam  o'er  the  world  and  see  sights  afar; 
But  somehow  in  age  I  am  prone  to  contrition 
At  missing  the  splendors  I  saw  in  my  star. 

Many  friends  came  around  me  in  moments  of  pleasure 
Who  drank  at  my  banquet  and  laughed  at  my  wit; 

But  when  I  had  lost  all  my  health  and  my  treasure 
They  left  me  alone  in  my  sorrow  to  sit. 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  223 

The  voice  of  the  crowd,  as  it  rung  in  my  praises, 

Awakened  a  joy  I  imagined  would  last; 
But,  alas!  my  ambition  lies  under  the  daisies, 

And  the  wrecks  of  my  glory  are  strewn  in  the  past. 

No  more  shall  I  sail  on  the  bright,  bounding  billow, 
Where  youth  in  its  beauty  rode  high  on  the  wave, 

For  soon  shall  I  sleep  'neath  the  turf  and  the  willow 
And  go  to  the  millions  that  rest  in  the  grave. 

This  tress  of  brown  hair  that  I  keep  in  my  sorrow 
And  the  withered  remains  of  a  beautiful  rose 

Shall  shine  o'er  the  ashes  of  hope  every  morrow, 
And  bring  to  my  lone  heart  sweet  peace  and  repose. 

At  the  shrine  of  a  memory  I  loved  in  my  childhood 
I  kneel  and  I  pray  in  the  midnight  of  care, 

And  flit  back  again  to  the  flowers  in  the  wildwood, 
While  soaring  in  silence  o'er  grief  and  dispair. 

Ah!  who  has  not  left  still  some  sweet  consolation 
To  soften  the  pangs  and  the  thorns  of  regret, 

When  every  wild  fancy  and  dark  devastation 
In  vain  bids  us  banish  the  past  and  forget  ? 


A  MEMORY. 

[Dedicated  to  DeLancy  Gill.] 

Adown  the  vanished  years  where  mem'ry  lingers 
There  comes  to  me  a  picture  from  the  past, 

And  round  her  brow  I  see  fond  fairy  fingers 
Entwining  rarest  roses  to  the  last. 

Her  laughing  voice  could  banish  every  sorrow; 

Her  sunny  smile  was  all  the  world  to  me — 
Yet  vainly  from  the  past  I  try  to  borrow 

Her  presence  from  that  dark  eternity. 

It  must  be  that  beyond  the  stars  now  shining 
She  waits  and  watches  for  my  coming  call; 

For  oft  in  dreams  my  weary  head  reclining, 
Upon  her  bosom  finds  its  sweet  enthrall. 


224  JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 


THE  OCEAN  GRAVE. 

Let  me  rest  in  the  boundless  ocean, 
Where  the  storm-king  rules  the  wave, 

Where  waters  are  ever  in  motion 
Above  a  limitless  grave. 

Let  me  rest  where  the  roaring  billow 
Resounds  o'er  the  waters  wide, 

A  dirge  o'er  my  coral  pillow 
A  song  for  my  mermaid  bride. 

Let  me  rest  where  the  evening  twilight 

Mellows  the  parting  day, 
Where  the  sea-birds  flit  in  the  moonlight 

Through  breakers  of  blue  and  gray. 

Let  me  sink  where  the  sands  are  shining 
On  the  surf  of  a  lonely  shore, 

Where  the  clouds  have  a  silver  lining 
And  there's  rest  for  evermore. 


A  DOLLAR  OR  TWO. 

[.Dedicated  to  the  Washington  Lodge  of  Elks.] 

With  circumspect  steps  as  we  pick  our  way  thro' 
This  intricate  world,  as  all  prudent  folks  do, 
May  we  still  on  our  journey  be  able  to  view 
The  benevolent  face  of  a  dollar  or  two. 
For  an  excellent  thing  is  a  dollar  or  two  ; 
No  friend  is  so  true  as  a  dollar  or  two. 

In  country  or  town,  as  we  pass  up  and  down, 
We  are  cock  of  the  walk  with  a  dollar  or  two. 

Do  you  wish  to  escape  from  the  bachelor  crew 
And  a  charming  young  innocent  female  to  woo 
You  must  always  be  ready  the  handsome  to  do 
Although  it  may  cost  you  a  dollar  or  two. 
For  love  tips  his  darts  with  a  dollar  or  two  ; 
Young  affections  are  gained  by  a  dollar  or  two ; 

And  beyond  all  dispute  the  best  card  of  your  suit 
Is  the  eloquent  chink  of  a  dollar  or  two. 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  225 

Do  you  wish  to  have  friends  who  your  bidding  will  do, 
And  help  you  your  means  to  get  speedily  through, 
You'll  find  them  remarkably  faithfully  true 
By  the  magical  power  of  a  dollar  or  two. 
For  friendship's  secured  by  a  dollar  or  two ; 
Popularity's  gained  by  a  dollar  or  two. 

And  you'll  n'er  want  a  friend  till  you've  no  more  to  lend 
And  yourself  need  to  borrow  a  dollar  or  two. 

*Do  you  wish  in  the  courts  of  the  country  to  sue 
For  the  right  or  estate  that's  another  man's  due, 
Your  lawyer  will  surely  remember  his  cue 
When  his  palm  you  have  crossed  with  a  dollar  or  two. 
For  a  lawyer's  convinced  with  a  dollar  or  two, 
And  a  jury  set  right  with  a  dollar  or  two. 

And  though  justice  is  blind,  yet  a  way  you  can  find 
To  open  his  eyes  with  a  dollar  or  two. 

If  a  claim  that  is  proved  to  be  honestly  due, 
Department  or  Congress  you'd  quickly  put  through, 
And  the  chance  for  its  payment  begins  to  look  blue, 
You  can  help  it  along  with  a  dollar  or  two. 
For  votes  are  secured  by  a  dollar  or  two, 
And  influence  bought  by  a  dollar  or  two  ; 

And  he'll  come  to  grief  who  depends  for  relief 
Upon  justice  not  braced  with  a  dollar  or  two. 

Do  you  wish  that  the  press  should  the  decent  thing  do 
And  give  your  reception  a  gushing  review, 
Describing  the  dresses  by  stuff,  style,  and  hue, 
On  the  quiet,  hand  Jenkins  a  dollar  or  two. 
For  the  pen  sells  its  praise  for  a  dollar  or  two, 
And  flings  its  abuse  for  a  dollar  or  two. 

And  you'll  find  that  it's  easy  to  manage  the  crew 
When  you  put  up  the  shape  of  a  dollar  or  two. 

Do  you  wish  your  existence  with  faith  to  imbue, 
And  so  become  one  of  the  sanctified  few ; 
Who  enjoy  a  good  name  and  a  well-cushioned  pew, 
You  must  really  come  down  with  a  dollar  or  two. 
For  the  gospel  is  preached  for  a  dollar  or  two  ; 
Salvation  is  reached  for  a  dollar  or  two  ; 

Sins  are  pardoned  sometimes,  but  the  worst  of  all  crimes 
Is  to  find  yourself  short  of  a  dollar  or  two. 

•Anonymous. 


226  JEWELS   OF    MEMORY. 

Do  you  wish  to  get  into  a  game  with  the  crew 

Who  sport  on  the '  'green"  with  the  "red, ' '  "white, ' '  and  "blue. ' ' 

In  a  small  game  of  draw  where  your  chances  are  few, 

You  must  back  up  your  talk  with  a  dollar  or  two. 

For  the  "  dealer  "  is  "  fly  "  with  a  dollar  or  two, 

And  the  "  banker  "  is  "flush  "  with  a  dollar  or  two  ; 

And  whate'er  you  say,  they  won't  let  you  play 
Unless  you  come  down  with  a  dollar  or  two. 

Should  you  "  hanker  "  for  Wall  street  as  Gentile  or  Jew, 
Where  the  "bulls"  and  "bears"  wait  for  "gudgeons"  like  you, 
Your  pile  they  will  measure  and  take  into  view, 
And  scoop  with  a  smile  your  last  dollar  or  two. 
For  the  "  bull  "  is  rampant  for  a  dollar  or  two, 
And  the  "  bear  "  ever  growls  for  a  dollar  or  two  ; 

Yet,  I'll  say  on  my  oath  that  the  broker  rules  both 
And  seldom  gets  left  on  his  dollar  or  two. 

Do  you  want  a  snug  place  where  there's  little  to  do, 
Civil  service  evade  and  its  rules  to  break  through, 
A  land  bill  to  pass  or  a  patent  renew — 
You  can  fix  the  thing  up  with  a  dollar  or  two  ; 
For  Commissions  can  see  through  a  dollar  or  two  ; 
Even  Congressmen  wink  at  a  dollar  or  two, 

And  you  need  not  be  slow  to  convince  friend  or  foe 
Of  the  virtue  contained  in  a  dollar  or  two  ! 


MAN. 

I  met  him  yesterday  in  lusty  health, 

Surrounded  with  the  strength  of  pomp  and  power, 
But  all  the  train  that  waited  on  his  wealth 

Could  not  insure  him  life  one  single  hour. 

Today  I  saw  him  coffined  and  confined 
Within  a  narrow  cell  beneath  the  sod, 

With  all  his  earthly  prospects  there  resigned, 
Dependent  on  the  mercy  of  his  God. 

Tomorrow's  sun  shall  set  upon  his  fame, 
And  leave  no  trace  of  where  he  lived  or  died, 

While  even  the  record  of  his  wealth  and  name 
Shall  vanish  with  his  power  and  his  pride! 


POETIC    PEBBLES. 

LORD  BYRON. 
[Dedicated  to  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  the  Hoosier  Poet.] 

Immortal  bard !  thy  glorious,  royal  thought 

Sprung  from  thy  brain,  Minerva-like  and  caught 

The  echoes  of  the  fleeting,  rolling  years 

That  thrill  the  music  of  the  sounding  spheres. 

Proud,  independent,  and  still  a  stoic, 

Always  grand,  peculiar,  and  heroic — 

Who  looked  upon  the  hypocrites  of  earth 

As  crawling  worms,  unworthy  of  a  birth, 

Who  only  left  their  slime  upon  their  day, 

Were  unremembered  when  they  passed  away. 

Small  creatures  who  are  fitted  for  poor  pelf 

Who  live  and  die  in  concentrated  self! 

But  thou,  an  eagle  from  some  Alpine  peak 

Bathing  its  plumage  in  the  cloud-capped  foam, 

Wandering  o'er  this  world,  to  vainly  seek 

For  truth  and  love,  for  honest  heart  and  home. 

Beneath  Italian  skies  you  sought  for  peace, 

And  steered  your  bounding  bark  round  isles  of  Greece, 

Along  the  shores  of  Oriental  lands, 

Where  billows  break  upon  their  golden  sands. 

And  o'er  the  desert  wild  you  loved  to  roam, 

But  never  found  on  earth  a  rest  or  home. 

Giaour,  the  Venitian,  made  Hassan  bleed 

And  cleft  his  head  upon  the  prancing  steed, 

All  for  the  love  he  bore  sweet  Lelia  dead — 

Where  ocean  billows  broke  above  her  head. 

'Tis  sweet  to  be  revenged  on  dastard  man 

And  kill  a  hated  tyrant  when  you  can, 

Who  knows  no  law  within,  below,  above — 

Dark,  brutal  passion  only  felt  for  love ! 

Now,  see  the  Giaour  in  his  death-bed  trance 

Clasp  lovely  Lelia  with  his  parting  glance. 

Confessed  his  crimes,  defiant  of  his  course 

And  died  without  a  pang  or  feeling  of  remorse  ; 

A  lone  and  broken  wreck  upon  the  shore 

A  brave  and  royal  spirit  evermore. 

One  who  could  face  the  shades  of  death  so  well, 

Defying  all  the  powers  of  earth  and  hell. 


JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

The  bride  of  Abydos  you  brightly  paint 

In  colors  that  Old  Time  can  never  taint ; 

Her  love  as  constant  as  the  polar  star 

That  shines  o'er  Arctic  night  so  fair  and  far, 

And  for  the  youthful  Selim  she  defied 

A  parent's  terror  and  the  world  beside. 

Who  pledged  her  happiness,  her  love  in  strife, 

A  shining  rainbow  in  the  storms  of  life, 

Who,  when  her  lover,  forced  to  die  and  part, 

Could  rend  her  soul,  one  sigh,  a  broken  heart! 

Zaleika ;  from  thy  Cyprus  mount  on  high 

Above  the  billow,  near  Hellenic  sky, 

The  bulbul  and  the  nightingale  doth  sing 

A  requiem  as  their  mighty  offering 

To  one  who  loved  not  wisely,  but  too  well, 

Thou  paragon  of  beauty,  fare  thee  well. 

Within  the  cell  of  Tasso  we  may  find 

The  wreck  and  ruin  of  a  brilliant  mind, 

Who  loved  beyond  his  rank  and  wand'ring  state 

Leonora,  the  princess  and  ingrate, 

Who,  like  Alphonso,  the  mean  tyrant  duke, 

Could  calmly  look  on  wrong  and  not  rebuke. 

Yet  all  the  glories  of  the  house  of  Este 

Have  long  since  vanished  like  a  fearful  pest, 

While  Tasso  and  his  lovelit  lines  shall  shine 

Along  the  rolling  years,  supreme,  divine  ! 

Byron,  'lone,  proud,  and  friendless  everywhere 

Except  when  sailing  with  thine  own  Corsair, 

Conrad,  the  pirate,  and  his  queenly  care. 

The  lovelit  homicide,  the  wild  Gulnare  ! 

Yet,  in  the  tower  with  sweet  Medora  dead 

You  lay  upon  her  breast  your  aching  head, 

And  from  those  wild  eyes  tears  of  truth  o'erflow 

The  sparkling  messenger  of  nameless  woe. 

But,  quickly,  all  these  signs  of  grief  depart, 

"  In  helpless,  hopeless,  brokenness  of  heart!  " 

Childe  Harold,  thou  licentious  Don  Juan, 

Yet  not  myself  in  all  that  thou  dost  plan, 

"To  point  a  moral  and  adorn  a  tale," 

For  secret  scoundrels,  hypocrites  so  frail 

Who  know  themselves  as  villians,  dastard  liars, 

Dreading  man's  detection,  perdition  fires, 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  229 

Who  only  prate  and  preach  and  never  feel 
The  glorious  impulse  of  a  grand  ideal ! 
And  I  have  searched  the  quarry  of  thy  thought 
For  marbles  rare,  uncovered  and  unbought, 
And  delved  into  thy  mind,  so  sad  and  lone 
To  find  in  depths  the  prisoner  of  Chillon, 
Who  dungeoned,  for  sweet  liberty  and  truth, 
The  tyrant's  portion — for  heroic  youth. 
That  would  not  yield  till  all  his  kindred  slept 
Beneath  the  prison  stones  where  he  hath  wept 
To  hear  his  brothers  in  their  clanking  chains 
Die  with  moaning,  groans,  and  patient  pains. 
Homer,  Shakspeare,  to  thee  alone  compare, 
Godlike  triumvirate,  grand,  rich,  and  rare, 
Shall  shine  through  all  the  ages  and  all  time, 
The  life  of  virtue  and  the  death  of  crime  ! 
And,  oh!  sweet  Bard,  where'er  Augusta  lies 
And  faithful  friendship  turns  to  thee  her  eyes, 
There,  from  the  earth  the  tribute  of  our  tears 
Shall  melt  like  dewdrops  in  the  coming  years, 
And  o'er  your  hallowed  dust  we'll  send  a  sigh 
For  one  immortal  soul  that  cannot  die  ! 


A  CONFEDERATE   SOLDIER. 

[To  the  memory  of  Thos.  J.  Luttrell.] 

A  manly  man  has  passed  away, 
He  rests  beneath  the  silent  sod. 

He  carried  sunshine  in  his  day, 
And  gave  his  heart  and  soul  to  God. 

In  war  and  peace  he  was  so  brave, 
Kept  duty  as  his  guide  and  chart, 

Although  his  body  fills  the  grave, 
His  memory  lingers  in  the  heart. 

Peace  to  his  ashes,  rest  his  soul; 

No  more  his  smiling  face  we'll  see; 
He's  reached  at  last  the  final  goal, 

And  shines  within  eternity. 


JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 


DON'T ! 

Don't  quarrel  with  what  you  can't  help, 

For  this  life  is  not  very  long; 
Don't  listen  to  every  whelp 

That  barks  at  your  heels,  right  or  wrong. 

Don't  worry  when  friends  shall  betray, 
They've  done  it  since  Judas  began; 

Hold  truth  in  the  night  or  the  day, 
And  then,  you  will  feel  like  a  man! 

Don't  look  for  perfection  below, 

For  all  that  is  mortal  must  sin, 
And  each  one  is  subject  to  woe, 

No  matter  how  pure  he's  within. 

Don't  fear  to  go  under  the  sod; 

To  die  is  no  more  than  be  born, 
Have  trust  in  yourself  and  your  God 

And  you'll  meet  in  some  heavenly  morn  ! 


TRIUMPHANT. 

[Dedicated  to  Col.  D.  B.  Henderson,  Dubuque,  Iowa.] 

Though  conquered  and  bleeding  and  dying, 
My  spirit  soars  high  o'er  the  gale, 

And  round  me  sweet  voices  are  sighing 
A  dirge  for  the  noble  who  fail. 

Long  lines  of  the  conquered  are  coming 

To  waft  me  away  to  the  skies, 
And  echoes  are  peacefully  humming 

A  song  for  the  hero  who  dies — 

For  the  rights  he  has  fervently  cherished 

Along  the  dark  vale  of  despair, 
And  for  his  own  truth  he  has  perished 

Like  dewdrops  that  melt  into  air. 

No  marble  may  mark  his  cold  ashes, 
No  song  lend  a  charm  to  his  name; 

The  lightning  of  war  only  flashes 
The  death  moan  that  murmurs  his  fame. 


POETIC    PEBBLES. 

The  grass  grows  as  green  o'er  the  conquered 

As  where  the  victorious  lie; 
They  fell  with  a  yell  for  a  watchword 

That  taught  their  proud  manhood  to  die. 

When  God  comes  to  judge  all  His  creatures 
Who  toddle  through  life's  little  day, 

I  know  he  will  mark  his  own  features 
In  the  mortal  that  falls  by  the  way. 

And  when  victory  garlands  her  heroes 

Who  perish  in  naked  detail, 
She  will  not  crown  the  long  line  of  Neros, 

But  the  truthful  who  struggle  and  fail ! 


THE  JEW. 
[Dedicated  to  the  fair  Hebrew  ladies.] 

The  wild  ivy  vine  of  old  Palestine 

Creeps  over  its  temple  and  towers 
And  leaves  but  a  trace  of  the  historic  race 

That  once  filled  its  beautiful  bowers. 

Yet  age  after  age  on  every  page 

Of  the  record  of  love  and  of  life, 
The  Hebrew  appears  to  bloom  o'er  the  years 

And  soars  over  sorrow  and  strife. 

Though  crushed  and  reviled,  defeated,  despoiled, 

The  seed  of  the  martyrs  abound, 
And  all  o'er  the  earth  where  mortals  have  birth 

The  Jew  and  the  Jewess  are  found. 

In  science  and  art  they  each  take  a  part, 

And  labor  for  liberty,  too  ; 
The  tyrant  they  hate  in  church  or  in  state, 

And  freedom  they  always  pursue. 

Success  to  the  Jew,  the  wandering  Hebrew, 

Who  never  was  known  to  despair  ; 
In  bondage  or  chains,  in  losses  or  pains, 

His  face  can  be  seen  everywhere. 


232  JEWELS   OF   MEMORY. 

WHEN  LOVE  IS  DEAD. 

[Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Frank  Schwartz.] 

When  love  is  dead,  with  all  the  hopes  we  cherished, 
What  matters  every  scene  of  fleeting  life  ? 

Far  better  to  be  with  the  loved  ones  perished 
Than  linger  longer  through  this  warring  strife. 

When  love  is  dead  the  world  is  all  a  blank, 
From  rise  of  sun  to  evening's  golden  glow; 

Nor  wealth  nor  power,  nor  all  the  joys  of  rank 
Can  ease  the  heart  for  love  lost  long  ago. 

There's  nothing  left  to  cheer  the  wounded  heart, 

Except  what  memory  calls  its  own; 
And  that  is  often  like  a  poisoned  dart 

That  chills  the  soul  when  we  are  left  alone. 

Yet,  far  beyond  the  sun  and  shining  stars, 
There  must  be  rest  and  joy  for  those  who  sigh, 

Where  love  eternal  knows  no  cruel  scars, 
And  where  affection  cannot  doubt  or  die! 


A  SPRAY. 

[To  the  memory  of  Gustave  A.  Forsberg,  artist.] 

I  place  a  spray  upon  thy  cold,  dead  form, 
To  memory  and  the  wilds  of  long  ago; 

And  think  of  thee  in  sunshine  and  in  storm, 
As  rhythmic  music  with  its  fluent  flow. 

The  time  we  spent  in  magic,  midnight  hours, 
Where  art  and  beauty  led  the  truant  train, 

Have  vanished  with  the  bright  and  fading  flowers 
That  ne'er  shall  thrill  our  wandering  lives  again. 

But,  in  my  heart  I  cherish  all  your  glory, 
And  o'er  your  coffined  manhood  shed  a  tear; 

While  life  remains  I'll  sound  your  genial  story, 
And  tell  your  pleasant  tales  from  year  to  year. 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  233 

SHALL  WE  LIVE  AGAIN  ? 

[Dedicated  to  Hon.  William  B.  Allison,  IL  S.  Senator.] 

I  asked  the  hills  in  vernal  bloom 
To  tell  me  if  beyond  the  tomb 
The  mind  of  man  is  full  and  free, 
The  heir  to  all  eternity. 

I  asked  the  seas,  that  grandly  roll 
Their  wrinkled  brows  from  pole  to  pole, 
If  far  beyond  their  utmost  shore 
There  is  a  life  for  evermore. 

I  asked  the  stars,  that  nightly  shine 
As  jewels  in  the  crown  divine, 
If  man  shall  live  within  their  sphere, 
Devoid  of  all  the  dross  that's  here. 

I  asked  the  sun,  whose  heavenly  light 
Shines  somewhere  always  day  and  night, 
To  tell  me  if  the  soul  of  man 
Exists  beyond  this  little  span. 

The  hills  and  seas,  and  stars  and  sun 
Made  glorious  answer  one  by  one, 
Proclaiming  with  a  grand  refrain — 
"God  wills  that  man  shall  live  again /" 

THE  POET. 

You'll  bury  his  body,  but  not  his  thought, 

For  thousands  of  years  to  come; 
And  he'll  live  in  the  works  his  brain  has  wrought 

When  temples  and  statues  are  dumb. 

For  he  teaches  the  lesson  of  ages 

To  all  the  schools  of  mankind — 
That  old  truth,  with  its  golden  pages, 

Is  the  essence  of  magic  mind. 

And  his  songs  shall  sound  o'er  the  rolling  years 

To  the  tune  of  eternal  time, 
And  echo  along  through  celestial  spheres 

With  the  bliss  of  angelic  rhyme. 


234  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

SHED  NO  TEARS. 

[Dedicated  to  my  wife.] 

Shed  no  tears  when  I  am  gone, 

Cease  thy  earthly  sorrow ; 
Find  again  some  fairer  one, 

Love  again  tomorrow. 

Shed  no  tears,  for  tears  are  vain, 
To  bring  back  the  departed; 

Who  lived  in  keen,  pathetic  pain, 
And  died — the  broken  hearted. 

Shed  no  tears,  let  sunshine  fill 

The  measure  of  thy  life; 
Wander  like  a  sparkling  rill, 

Away  from  sin  and  strife. 

Shed  no  tears  above  my  clay, 
But  lay  me  'neath  the  willow, 

Where  the  morning  sunbeams  play 
Above  my  pulseless  pillow. 

Shed  no  tears,  but  in  some  hour 

Go  kneel  beside  my  grave; 
Plant  a  bright,  carnation  flower, 

And  lonely  let  it  wave. 

Then,  turn  away,  but  shed  no  tears, 

And  seek  the  banquet  hall; 
Where  you  may  shine  throughout  the  years, 

The  pride  and  joy  of  all! 


THE  EAGLE. 
[Dedicated  to  Columbia.] 

Who  taught  you  how  to  soar  so  high, 
And  wander  in  the  upper  blue? 

Why  can't  I  float  along  the  sky 
And  be  a  mate  with  storms  and  you? 

I've  seen  you  from  grand  rocky  heights 
Sail  proudly  on  your  tireless  wing, 

And  bathe  your  plumage  in  the  lights 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  235 

Where  you  have  ruled,  as  battle  king. 
Your  shoreless  realm  is  broad  and  free, 

Without  a  limit  here  below, 
And  reaches  to  eternity, 

Where  heavenly  waters  flash  and  flow. 
How  well  you  typify  the  force 

Of  nature  and  her  royal  plan, 
The  form  and  power  and  strength  and  source 

Of  all  that's  great  in  tyrant  man. 
On  Alpine  crags  in  winter  hours 

Your  flashing  eye  defies  the  sun, 
And  battles  with  the  stormy  powers 

Till  nature  and  her  laws  are  won. 
You  rob  the  hills  so  far  away, 

Where  reigns  the  wolf  and  stalwart  stag, 
To  feed  your  brood  at  close  of  day, 

That  hunger  on  the  mountain  crag. 
And  in  the  rosy  rays  of  dawn 

I've  heard  your  wild  and  piercing  scream, 
When  dashing  on  the  famished  fawn 

While  drinking  at  the  sparkling  stream. 
Oh!  could  I  fly  and  sail  with  you, 

Where  Freedom  holds  her  splendid  sway 
Among  the  stars  that  gem  the  blue, 

And  lights  up  an  eternal  day! 


APOSTROPHE  TO  OLD  OCEAN. 

[The  Grave  of  Untold  Millions.] 

Uprear  your  hills  of  emerald  spray, 
And  drown  mankind  that  sail  today. 
Engulf  them  in  your  gloomy  grave, 
Where  coral  branches  lonely  wave. 
Leave  no  memorial  where  they  died, 
But  revel  in  your  royal  pride. 
Millions  of  years  you've  reigned  alone, 
A  mighty  monarch  on  your  throne. 
And  how  you  roll  and  rave  and  roar 
Against  the  rocks  upon  the  shore, 
Destroying  islands  in  your  course — 
A  tyrant  power  without  remorse. 


236  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 

Great  lands  have  sunk  beneath  your  tread, 

Enwrapping  millions  with  the  dead. 

You  shriek  o'er  those  you  now  entomb, 

Who  vanished  in  their  brilliant  bloom, 

And  roar  their  dirge  with  ceaseless  strain, 

Demanding  more  to  still  enchain 

Within  your  hungry  mammoth  maw, 

The  emblem  of  eternal  law  ! 

Vain  are  the  powers  of  man  to  stay 

Your  gnawing  grasp  so  cold  and  gray 

That  earthquake  shocks  cannot  retire 

Or  ruin  with  volcanic  fire. 

Your  tidal  waves  reach  high  and  grand 

To  devastate  the  ling'ring  land  ; 

And  how  you  laugh  with  thund'ring  joy 

When  us  weak  mortals  you  destroy. 

Forever  roll  from  pole  to  pole, 

Thou  tyrant  god  without  a  soul; 

From  arctic  snow  to  tropic  sun, 

The  glory  of  that  Mystic  One, 

Who  times  the  tide  from  land  to  land, 

And  holds  the  waters  in  His  hand. 

Encircle  all  the  earth  with  fear 

And  be  the  terror  of  the  year ; 

Uprear  your  broad-back  billows  high, 

Defy  the  clouds  and  storms  and  sky, 

And  challenge  all  that  sin  or  sigh 

To  come  to  thee,  lament  and  die ! 


GENIUS. 

[Dedicated  to  Leo  Wheat,  of  Virginia.] 

He  thrills  the  heart  with  grand,  poetic  numbers, 
And  plucks  the  crown  of  thorns  from  brows  of  care; 

He  wakes  and  thinks  what  time  the  sluggard  slumbers, 
And  scatters  gems  of  beauty  everywhere. 

Entrancing  music  with  voluptuous  swell 

He  casts  upon  the  weary,  mystic  mind, 
Sounding  as  sweetly  as  some  far-off  bell, 

Evolving  hope  and  love  for  all  mankind. 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  237 

The  canvas  glows  beneath  his  magic  hand 
With  forms  of  grace,  and  grace  that  is  divine; 

He  pictures  all  the  gems  of  sea  and  land, 
Securing  to  the  world  the  superfine. 

His  chisel  carves  the  marble  into  form 

Of  bust  and  statue,  pyramid  and  tower, 
Defying  ages  of  both  sun  and  storm 

To  crush  the  thought  that  thrilled  him  for  an  hour. 

And  yet  the  Genius  with  his  suffering  soul 

Oft  wanders  o'er  the  earth  misunderstood 
By  chattering  daws  who  never  reach  the  goal 

Of  knowing  how  to  do  their  fellows  good. 

But  when  he's  seen  no  more  in  field  or  town, 

And  all  his  mortal  part  lies  cold  and  dead, 
Some  sage  or  city  for  their  self-renown, 

Will  give  a  shaft  where  once  he  needed  bread  ! 


THE  DYING  YEAR. 

The  year  is  dying,  the  winds  are  sighing 
Amid  the^forest  branches  cold  and  gray, 

While  snows  are  falling  and  crows  are  calling 
Their  mates  in  chorus  through  the  cloudy  day. 

I  pause  and  ponder  and  weirdly  wander 
Among  the  years  that  slumber  in  the  past, 

Where  friends  have  vanished  with  pleasure  banished, 
While  vainlike  visions  haunt  me  to  the  last. 

That  dead  December  I  well  remember 
When  dear  bright  beauties  beamed  upon  my  life, 

And  every  treasure  brought  double  pleasure 
Before  I  lost  my  loving  child  and  wife. 

And  yet  the  roses  and  perfumed  posies 
Will  bloom  again  above  their  vernal  sod, 

Where  Hope  still  lingers  with  rosy  fingers 
To  point  us  to  the  glory  of  our  God. 


238  JEWELS    OF    MEMORY. 


THE  CLICK  OF  THE  CLOCK. 

[To  an  Old  Clock.] 

Every  click  of  the  clock  lessens  life's  little  span, 

And  blots  out  the  hopes  of  an  hour, 
With  all  the  ambitions  of  vain  little  man 

Who  struts  in  his  pride  and  his  power. 

Every  tick  of  the  clock  drives  us  on  to  the  end 
Of  the  road  through  the  journey  of  life, 

While  out  of  the  line  falls  friend  after  friend 
Away  from  all  sorrow  and  strife. 

Every  stroke  of  the  clock  in  the  midnight  of  care 

Sounds  solemn  and  dreary  and  lone, 
While  the  heart  grows  so  weary,  so  barren  and  bare, 

Beating  on  to  the  dark,  great  unknown. 

Our  days  are  soon  numbered  and  soon  we'll  depart 

To  the  darkness  encircling  the  tomb, 
But  while  we  remain  let  us  cherish  each  heart 

And  virtue  that's  ever  in  bloom. 

Let  us  hope  and  believe  that  the  spirit  shall  reign 

In  a  realm  of  love  and  of  light, 
Where  dear  ones  shall  clasp  us  again  and  again 

And  everything  rules  for  the  right ! 


THE  LONG  AGO. 

[Dedicated  to  Gen.  James  M.  Ewing,  Washington,  D.  C.I 

Dear  Jim,  do  you  think  of  the  long,  long  ago  ? 

When  our  hearts  and  our  souls  were  all  feeling, 
And  we  knew  not  of  sin,  of  sorrow,  or  woe 

When  classmates  at  school  in  old  Wheeling. 

The  years  have  flown  fast;  the  cold  winter  blast 
Has  furrowed  our  hearts  and  our  features, 

Yet  the  fate  we  endure  is  as  certainly  sure 
To  come  to  all  weak,  human  creatures. 

Yet,  as  life  runs  along,  we  shall  sing  the  "  old  song  " 

Of  Love,  Truth,  and  Justice  forever, 
And  wherever  we  be,  on  the  land  or  the  sea, 

No  storm  our  friendship  can  sever. 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  239 

We'll  laugh  and  we'll  think,  and  "sometimes  "  may  drink 

To  the  friends  that  we  knew  in  the  dawning, 
When  life  was  so  bright,  every  morn,  noon,  and  night, 

And  the  heart  never  thought  about  fawning. 

And  when  life  is  o'er,  on  some  beautiful  shore 

I  hope  we  shall  meet  amid  flowers 
With  the  friends  of  our  youth,  whose  beauty  and  truth 

Shall  enliven  sweet  heavenly  hours. 


NAPOLEON. 

A  wreck  of  ambition,  deserted,  alone, 

He  rode  o'er  the  bones  of  mankind  to  a  throne: 

Men,  women,  and  nations  were  playthings  to  him, 

A  great  goblet  of  blood  he  quaffed  to  the  brim. 

The  faithful  of  France  he  slaughtered  for  fame, 

While  kings  were  his  pawns  and  queens  were  his  game; 

His  conquering  eagles  o'er  Alpine  snow, 

Rushed  down,  like  an  avalanche,  freighted  with  woe; 

The  fierce  storms  of  old  Moscow  fanning  its  fire, 

Compelled  the  invader  to  turn  and  retire, 

And  leave  untold  thousands  to  die  in  his  track, 

For  vultures  to  feed  on  and  Cossacks  to  hack. 

The  star  of  his  destiny  sunk  out  of  view; 

Eclipsed  in  the  blood  of  his  last  Waterloo; 

Then,  exiled  from  France,  his  hope  and  his  pride, 

Caged  like  a  lion  he  fretted  and  died. 

A  marvelous  meteor  that  flashed  o'er  the  wave, 

To  darkle  at  last  in  the  gloom  of  the  grave. 

Far  better,  the  lowest,  poor  peasant  of  France, 

Who  toils  in  his  vineyard  or  joins  in  the  dance, 

Than  all  of  his  glory  in  battle  array, 

That,  sooner  or  later,  will  vanish  away. 

Peace,  virtue,  and  truth  are  the  jewels  of  joy — 

The  hope  of  the  world,  without  base  alloy; 

The  gifts  of  our  Maker,  the  best  on  this  sod, 

The  glory  of  genius  and  tributes  of  God. 

Vain,  vain,  all  the  pomp  of  Napoleon's  high  pride; 

Broken-hearted,  alone,  disappointed,  he  died, 

And  left  to  the  world  but  the  sound  of  his  name, 

The  fool  of  ambition,  the  football  of  fame  ! 


240  JEWELS    OF   MEMORY. 

THE  ANSWER  OF  THE  STARS. 

[Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  my  dear  daughter,  Katie  darling.] 
I  held  her  dead,  cold  hand  in  mine. 

Then  gazed  upon  her  folded  eyes, 
And  asked  her  for  a  single  sign 

To  guide  me  to  the  heavenly  skies. 

I  smoothed  her  gentle,  lovely  face 
And  fixed  the  tresses  on  her  brow ; 

I  kissed  her  lips,  like  fretted  lace, 
Still  trusting  she  might  answer  now. 

Yet  she  was  dumb  as  marble  stone, 

And  left  me  lonely  to  repine; 
I  called  her  "  darling,"  "  sweet,"  "  mine  own, 

But  still  she  gave  me  not  a  sign. 

I  laid  her  in  the  dull,  cold  earth, 
Where  roses  bloom  above  her  head, 

And  where  the  faithful  have  new  birth 
In  realms  beyond,  where  none  are  dead. 

I  then  appealed  unto  the  stars, 
Those  radiant  eyes  of  God's  domain — 

When  they  replied  o'er  golden  bars, 
"The  good  shall  meet  their  own  again!  " 


A  TOAST  TO  ERIN. 

[Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Robert  Emmet.] 

Here's  to  the  land  of  the  shamrock  and  myrtle, 
The  land  of  the  linnet,  the  lark,  and  the  thrush; 

Where  always  is  heard  the  mourne  of  the  turtle, 
That  coos  to  his  mate  from  the  hawthorn  bush. 

Here's  to  the  land  of  the  glorious  Emmet, 
Who  fell  in  the  front  of  fair  Freedom's  sweet  cause; 

The  land  of  Wolf  Tone,  and  love  without  limit, 
That  tramples  forever  o'er  tyranny's  laws. 

Here's  to  the  land  of  great  Goldsmith  and  Grattan, 
To  Sheridan,  Phillips,  O'Connell,  and  Moore, 

Whose  brains  shone  as  bright  as  sheen  on  the  satin, 
Was  filled  with  the  riches  of  legendary  lore. 


POETIC   PEBBLES.  24! 

Here's  to  the  land  of  the  roebuck  and  heather, 
The  wild  "  Connaught  Rangers  "  that  never  knew  fear; 

Who  battle  for  freedom  in  fair  or  foul  weather, 
And  die  for  their  country  through  year  after  year. 

Here's  to  the  bright  Limerick  lasses  forever; 

The  dear  Dublin  belles  and  the  ladies  of  Cork; 
Their  hearts  are  so  true  that  distance  can't  sever 

The  songs  they  have  sung  with  the  notes  of  a  lark. 

Here's  to  the  land  of  sweet  songs  and  sad  story; 

To  exiles  that  roam  o'er  this  cold,  barren  earth; 
To  men  who  have  bled  on  battlefields  gory, 

Successful  for  all  but  the  land  of  their  birth. 

Here's  to  old  Erin,  the  gem  of  the  ocean, 

The  land  of  the  poet,  the  soldier,  and  sage; 
Where  eloquence  burns  with  fire  and  emotion — 

Where  liberty  struggles  from  age  unto  age  I 


WE  NEVER  DIE! 

We  never  die,  and  only  step 
From  sphere  to  sounding  sphere, 

Advancing  ever  forward 
Through  one  eternal  year. 

We  never  die,  but  only  change 
This  coat  of  crumbling  clay 

For  garments  ever  brighter — 
For  one  celestial  day. 

We  never  die,  we  always  lived 
In  worlds  before  this  earth; 

Let's  onward,  onward  ever 
To  where  the  soul  had  birth. 

We  never  die  ;  there  is  no  death  I 

All  nature  teaches  life, 
The  soul  shall  live  forever 

Beyond  this  vale  of  strife. 


242  JEWELS   OF   MEMORY. 


O'ER  THE  EMBERS. 

O'er  the  embers  of  departed  pleasure 
I  ponder  lonely  on  the  days  no  more, 

And  think  of  loved  ones  that  I  fondly  treasure 
Who've  long  since  landed  on  the  other  shore. 

Their  image  beams  from  out  the  smoldering  fire, 
Where  memory  holds  her  banquet  to  the  last; 

Their  voices  vibrate  on  the  golden  lyre 
That  links  the  passing  present  with  the  past. 

Again  I  hear  their  songs  of  bliss  and  beauty, 
Their  merry  laughter  and  their  joyous  glee, 

When  all  was  truth  and  hope  and  duty, 
And  Life  and  Love  were  all  the  world  to  me. 

And  though  the  snows  of  many  a  cruel  winter 
Have  fallen  thickly  o'er  my  bending  head, 

And  Time  upon  my  brow  has  been  a  printer, 
I  still  must  cherish  the  dear,  sainted  dead. 

Well !  I'll  cover  up  the  embers  with  the  ashes 
Of  fruitless  efforts  that  have  passed  away, 

And  linger  on  the  lights  that  memory  flashes 
Across  the  fields  now  barren,  bleak,  and  gray. 


POETIC   PEBBLES.  243 


ARLINGTON. 

A  PROSE   POEM  —  GRAPHIC   DESCRIPTION  OF   THE   NATIONAL 
CEMETERY. 

[Dedicated  to  the  Twenty-sixth  National  Encampment,  G.  A.  R. ;  framed  and  hung 
up  in  soldier  cemeteries,  homes,  and  Grand  Army  posts.] 

Arlington  holds  within  her  emerald  bosom  17,000  heroic  warriors. 
Like  an  Egyptian  Queen  in  mournful  majesty,  gazing  on  the  eter- 
nal waters  of  the  Nile,  Arlington  rears  her  romantic  head  to  the 
sky  and  bathes  her  feet  in  the  murmuring  waters  of  the  Potomac. 

The  gnarled  oak,  the  cedar,  and  sighing  pine  echo  back  the  caw 
of  the  crow  and  the  song  of  the  wild  bird,  and  through  the  morning 
sunlight  and  evening  twilight  the  various  voices  of  nature  chant  a 
requiem  over  the  mouldering  remains  of  our  loyal  dead. 

This  spot  is  dedicated  to  heroism.  Its  green  sward  is  the  mau- 
soleum of  patriotic  hearts,  its  dome  the  bending  heavens,  and  its 
altar  candles  the  watching  stars  of  God  ! 

As  the  years  glide  away  and  coming  centuries  usher  into  life 
millions  of  human  beings,  Arlington  shall  be  a  Mecca  for  the 
unalterable  principles  of  truth,  and  around  its  undulating  vales 
and  green  hillocks  the  spirit  of  love  and  loyalty  shall  kneel  at  the 
vespers  of  Nationality  and  swing  perfumed  censors  at  the  holy 
shrine  of  prayer  and  patriotism. 

Monuments  in  marble,  granite,  and  bronze  lift  their  modest  or 
pretentious  heads,  appealing  to  the  memory  of  those  who  wander 
near  the  lowly  bed  where  valor  sleeps,  but  when  these  emblems  of 
love  and  remembrance  shall  have  passed  away  and  crumbled  into 
impalpable  dust,  the  truth  for  which  they  died  shall  shine  out  like 
the  rising  sun  and  be  as  lasting  as  eternity. 

The  home  of  romance,  wealth,  and  slavery  has  become  at  last 
the  sepulcher  of  the  dead,  and  the  laughing,  musical  voices  of  the 
proud  past  are  but  a  memory  in  the  columned  mansion  of  General 
Lee. 

Sheridan,  of  the  Army,  and  Porter,  of  the  Navy,  sleep  their  last 
sleep  in  front  of  Arlington  mansion,  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
floating  from  the  tall  staff  throws  its  glinting  shadows  over  the 
heroes  that  rest  below. 

Long,  regimental  lines  of  white  headstones  fade  away  into  forest 
vistas,  and  Sheridan  seems  to  ride  down  the  valley,  through  Win- 
chester, to  turn  retreat  into  victory. 

Templed,  unlike  the  Roman  Pantheon,  the  divinities  of  Arling- 


244  JEWELS   OF   MEMORY. 

ton  are  dedicated  to  patriotism,  and  its  worshipers  are  a  Christian 
people.  From  its  columned  porch  the  eye  beholds  to  the  east  and 
north,  across  the  Potomac,  the  mansions,  temples,  steeples,  domes, 
and  monuments  of  Washington  and  Georgetown,  framed  in  by  the 
rolling  hills  of  Maryland.  To  the  south  and  west  the  eye  may 
linger  on  the  historic  Long  Bridge  and  Alexandria,  where  the 
martyr  Ellsworth  lost  his  life  for  freedom. 

In  the  dim  distance  a  chain  of  forts  and  earthworks  rear  their 
crumbling  heads.  Thirty  years  of  rains,  snows,  and  suns  have 
wrinkled  their  bald  brows,  yet  Dame  Nature,  with  her  universal 
kindness,  has  covered  the  rude  scars  of  war  with  the  daisy,  the 
the  morning  glory,  and  the  Virginia  creeper. 

The  ploughshare  of  industry  has  leveled  down  the  red  ridges  of 
rebellion,  and  where  once  the  reveille  and  long  roll  of  battle  re- 
sounded, the  horn  of  the  husbandman  calls  his  toilers  of  peace 
from  fields  of  waving  grain  and  golden  fruit  to  the  rustic  board  of 
joy  and  love. 

The  brave  hearts  that  slumber  forever  at  Arlington,  as  well  as 
those  dear  comrades  at  Shiloh,  Chickamauga,  Fredericksburg, 
and  Gettysburg,  dedicated  their  lives  to  liberty  and  immortalized 
their  devotion  by  death.  Who  will  care  for  their  loved  mounds 
when  we  are  gone  ?  Who  will  then  strew  roses  and  plant  bright 
flowers  in  the  May-time  of  nature  ?  Other  patriotic  hands  of  brave 
men  and  fair  women  will  take  up  the  roll  of  duty,  and  even  when 
all  but  liberty  has  perished  from  the  earth  the  robin  and  the  blue- 
bird, the  jay,  and  the  mocking  bird  will  warble  at  sunrise  a  reveille 
over  the  green  sod  that  wraps  their  sacred  clay.  Nature  herself 
will  deck  the  graves  of  our  fallen  comrades,  and  the  winds  of 
Heaven  will  chant  a  requiem  to  their  memory  and  kiss  the  loved 
spot  where  heroes  slumber. 

Thousands  of  loved  comrades  rest  in  unknown  graves,  far  away 
from  the  loved  ones  at  home.  They  sleep  in  a  land  of  strangers, 
where  the  tears  of  love  cannot  moisten  the  green  shroud  that  man- 
tles their  ashes.  But  if  no  kind  hand  is  there  to  strew  flowers,  or 
loved  eye  to  shed  the  tear  of  sorrow,  there  is  One  that  reigns  among 
the  eternal  stars  that  daily  flood  the  unknown  grave  with  sunshine 
and  nightly  water  the  budding  wild  flowers  with  dews  from  Heaven! 

Beside  the  river  grave  grasses  quiver, 
Where  loyal  hosts,  their  work  have  bravely  done; 

They  sleep  in  glory  and  live  in  story — 
The  martyred  heroes  of  our  Arlington. 


POETIC    PEBBLES.  245 

Upon  the  ocean  with  deep  devotion 

Our  naval  heroes  fought  with  noble  pride, 
Sustained  our  banner  in  gallant  manner, 

And  for  their  country  freely  bled  and  died. 

No  more  to  battle  where  muskets  rattle, 
And  blood  flowed  free  as  water  from  a  spring, 

At  rest  forever  beside  the  river — 
The  nation's  chalice  with  its  offering  ! 

The  flag  they  fought  for,  the  end  they  sought  for, 

Shine  grandly  in  the  Union  of  today, 
And  no  false  reason  or  trumped  up  treason 

Can  from  its  granite  moorings  cut  away. 

No  sunlight  streaming  nor  moonlight  beaming 
Shall  ever  shine  for  these  brave  hearts  again; 

Their  race  is  finished,  yet  undiminished, 
Their  glory  triumphs  o'er  the  battle  plain. 

Unborn  ages  on  golden  pages 

Shall  tell  the  story  of  their  loyal  cause, 
And  how  they  perished  for  rights  they  cherished 

Defending  Freedom  and  her  honest  laws. 


THE   END. 


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